


The pull is stronger than the push

by Dapperscript, merrythoughts



Series: Meet on the horizon [1]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Biting, Cannibalistic Thoughts, Canon-Typical Violence, Choking, Come Licking, Conversations, Desperation, Disturbing Themes, Dom/sub, Episode: s03e02 Primavera, Episode: s03e07 Digestivo, Hallucinations, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Introspection, M/M, Masturbation, Mental Instability, Murder Kink, Oral Sex, Roleplay Logs, Romantic Tension, Scars, Season 3, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, Suicidal Thoughts, Trauma, Violent Thoughts, erotic asphyxiation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-17
Updated: 2018-02-05
Packaged: 2018-12-03 11:40:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 160,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11531478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dapperscript/pseuds/Dapperscript, https://archiveofourown.org/users/merrythoughts/pseuds/merrythoughts
Summary: Will's insides may once again be safe and secured behind skin that is laughably fragile, but Hannibal can still see the injuries in a metaphorical sense. He's wounded, dripping blood and gore behind his delicate mask. Will's eyes have changed, he decides. Will looks morehimselfnow, yes, but his eyes are different.[Season 3. Begins with a meet-up in the catacombs, diverges after Muskrat Farm/Digestivo!  Story mostly focusing on Hannibal, Will & eventually a dash of Chiyoh]





	1. Cities rise and fall

**Author's Note:**

> ( ﾟ▽ﾟ)/ Greetings, welcome to our season 3 AU because why not? Begins in ep2 Primavera, diverges after Muskrat Farm so NO MORNING AFTER (but plenty of shit to work out still)!
> 
> Will is written by Merrythoughts ([tumblr](http://merrythought.tumblr.com))  
> Hannibal/Chiyoh are written by Dapperscript/reallymisscoffee ([tumblr](http://reallymisscoffee.tumblr.com/))

The hallucination of Abigail Hobbs does, in fact, give him some comfort. Will can't help but converse with her on the stairs inside the Norman Chapel in Palermo Italy, speaking on what if's and other worlds... Will doesn't know if he can imagine the 'place for us' Abigail spoke of, but it’s a nice thought nonetheless. (Will does nothing as he watches a tear slide down her cheek, her neck opening up _again_ as she bleeds out her goodbye.) He is alone and the roof will not collapse on him just as Hannibal's cut to his abdomen had not been fatal. More suffering.

With his own eyes he's glimpsed the skull graven on the floor - the 'single reminder of mortality' Hannibal had spoke about. (Not that he needs a reminder as he's also _experienced_ such a thing on Hannibal's kitchen floor). Hannibal had left him a gift on display above that skull, too. Grotesque and beautiful and Will hadn't shied away from it, unable to stop himself from connecting to it, recreating it. Now Will's beneath, searching the catacombs for... for what? For Hannibal, for il Mostro? (He'd seen the flickering candle light amidst the darkness, blood had crept along the floor and hadn't been able to resist.)

_'He's still here.'_

And Will winds his way through the tunnels, his heart calm, but desperation and hope screaming in his skull. Will calls out _his_ name. Will’s voice doesn't waver. Pazzi thinks he's already dead and Will doesn't refute the claim, he simply bids Pazzi farewell and resumes his walk in the shadows.

Something shifts within himself. He stops and repeats Hannibal's name and whispers words that he _wants_ to be true.

"I forgive you."

* * *

Such a curious, brutal concept, forgiveness. To acknowledge injustice, accept it, and set it aside.

' _I forgive you, Will. Will you forgive me?'_

Forgiveness. Blood for blood. Equality. Reciprocity, perhaps. At the time, Hannibal had looked down upon Will's gutted, bleeding body, had watched the light of terror in his eyes but his own rage (his own hurt) had eclipsed it. To forgive is to set injustice aside, not to seek revenge or to seek the reciprocity Hannibal had sown. It had taken him long months of recklessness, had taken him Roman and Lydia Fell, had taken him a good half-dozen others simply to ease his anger, and then another half dozen to start in on his hurt. Yet somehow it is fitting that Dimmond is the man who finally draws Will to him. Dimmond, with his clever eyes and tongue, his curly brown hair and artful stubble. It had been a reckless, _personal_ kill.

So of course it had lured a reckless, personal man.

Will looks haggard, his skin paler, his clothes loose on his frame. He stands with the air of the recently-injured and yet he is even more achingly beautiful than the last time Hannibal had seen him. He listens silently as Will speaks and the rich tones of his voice flood over Hannibal's senses like water over a parched man's tongue. The ache of betrayal lingers. Will speaks to someone and while Hannibal cannot see them, he knows it's Abigail. He watches as Will slowly lowers himself down on the stairs, so close to where the gruesome offering had been left, Hannibal's attempt to tell Will what he'd _done_. It's reckless to be here. To be so close. Yet he has always been the moth to Will's flame.

He's quiet when he retreats to the catacombs. He slips unnoticed down the stairs, though he lingers by one of the flickering, artful candles. A hall of the dead. Fitting, perhaps, that this is where they will meet. Will, as usual, doesn't disappoint. While Pazzi's presence is a distraction (and Hannibal readies his knife to kill the man the moment he passes) it takes very little time for Will to send him away. Then it's merely the two of them in the silence, surrounded by the dead. A fitting analogy. Hannibal draws Will away, deeper, but then Will speaks and Hannibal goes still.

' _I forgive you.'_ Will says, and Hannibal feels a flicker of something in his chest. He should leave. He should gather himself, should retire to his flat and think. Will could very well be here to repay Hannibal's _forgiveness_.

He's quiet when he melts from the shadows behind Will, his shoes silent on the rough ground. Words catch and grind to dust in his throat. There are epics and sagas written in the space between them, but in the end it's only two words that make it to Hannibal's lips. They seem fitting.

"Hello, Will."

* * *

 What shifts to make him stop and utter those three prolific words? Will doesn't know. Perhaps they are more in tune with each other than he knows. He vaguely remembers the East Asian belief of a 'red string' of fate binding two people together - destined to find each other, to be lovers no matter the time or circumstances. The cord or string could tangle, stretch, but never break. Was that what they had? Was their connection an unbreakable bond that, despite the betrayals and lies, endured? How tight was the thread wrapped around his neck (for surely it had to be a noose). For him to be seeking out Hannibal Lecter, it must be wound many times over.

Will _feels_ Hannibal before he hears him. Two words are said to him: a simple greeting. Will spins around. His mouth parts. Words rise and fall. His chest rises and falls, but quicker now. He's no longer calm. This is his own religious experience. Being granted a vision of someone he's dreamed and longed for. He wants to reach out and verify Hannibal's corporeal presence, but he doesn’t.

"You're really here," he mumbles. It's such a stupid thing to say for he _knew_ Hannibal had remained. Will takes a step closer as if Hannibal is tugging on the thread.

* * *

Cities rise and fall in the moments after Hannibal speaks. He watches Rome conquer and fall as Will's shoulders seize with shock, and the centuries stretch as Will spins. Hannibal knows time is relative to the individual experiencing it, but the moment Will has finally turned to face him and Hannibal reads the shock in his eyes in this dreary land of the dead, he swears that time stands still.

This close, bathed in darkness, Will's eyebrows drawn down in a shocked wonder, Hannibal wonders if he's ever truly seen this man before. He's seen Will Graham, but this version - older, worn, his hair trimmed but clothes old and worn - is a perfect amalgamation of everything he had been. Everything he could be. Hannibal's face is as impassive as he can make it in the dark but he cannot stop the fruitful roving of his eyes, the way he looks at Will like a masterpiece finally unveiled. He's lost some muscle mass (his clothes don't fit him properly anymore and he's far too frugal to purchase more that do) but he is solid and real and stunning. Hannibal's chest aches like fire but he finds contentment as Will's response betrays _him._

He sounds breathless and halting and hopeful. Hannibal watches Will step closer and while he eyes Will's hands for any sign of retribution, he sees none.

"You knew I would be," he says quietly, cryptically. It's quite fitting given where they stand. "Or... perhaps you merely hoped. Regardless," Hannibal says as he drinks Will in like he'll never tire of him, "you look... well."

* * *

Has Will thought about this very moment, tirelessly gone over the options of what all he could say and do? Yes. Has he dreamed of one such outcome being a twisted reunion of sorts and then another resulting in a bloodbath? Yes. Has he hallucinated talking with the very man who had been able to embrace and gut him with such aching care? Yes. Even with all the time spent in his head and with his imagination, Will is still not prepared for the reality he finds himself in. While Hannibal doesn't share his surprise or shock, the older man's eyes do assess him (and likely finds him lacking in some way).

He may have known, for the cathedral was a logical place to start at any rate, but there still had been some doubt in Will. Hannibal _shouldn't_ have stayed after depositing his gift - always bad news to revisit one’s crime scene and all - yet Hannibal stands in a goddamn leather jacket of all things, hair looking softer and windblown. No suit, no tie. No pocket square. It should feel like a pretender to the throne, but Will likes this wild look on Hannibal. He can't help but be intrigued by it.

"On the outside maybe," Will replies, his voice quiet and restrained. The moment is too precious for raised voices. Too sacred. He doesn’t want to wake the dead and he's not ready for this conversation to come to an end.

"The good docs put me back together again." Will's hand reaches out but pauses midway. His heart beats twice before he pushes himself to continue its journey and it meets expensive leather, grasping Hannibal's bicep through the jacket. (How many times had Hannibal reached out for him, seems fitting that it ought to be him this time...)

* * *

Though every fiber in Hannibal's being begs him not to, Hannibal finds his gaze drawing down to the thick line of Will's jacket, right where his knife had slid cleanly past Will's skin and spilled his betrayal all over the floor. He's seen the incision before, had seen the violent, jagged edges pasted over Freddie Lounds' website some months back but Hannibal wonders how Will has maintained the scar. Has he allowed it to heal properly or has it lapsed like most other things in his life? Just as Will looks at him in a shaken awe, so too does Hannibal's focus linger for far too long for there to be any mistaking where his mind has gone.

Around them, the dead are the only ones who listen and they're in no position to tell tales. All there is in this moment out of time are Hannibal Lecter and Will Graham, their eyes seeking, their hands aching to touch, but to Hannibal's genuine surprise, it's Will who reaches out first.

His touch is like fire (though Hannibal cannot feel it directly through the leather of his jacket). Will's grip is weaker than Hannibal remembers it but a slanted glance at his bicep - at the pale hand curling around it like Hannibal could just turn to smoke and vanish - is enough to settle him. He traces the white-knuckled grip to a pale wrist, and then to a dark-sleeved arm which Hannibal follows until he finally finds Will's face again. It's that moment that what Will has done finally sinks in. Will has... reached out to him. Hannibal feels a surge of something low and severe in his stomach, but merely nods.

"So I've seen. Miss Lounds was terribly rude. I do hope you punished her severely for her misdeed," Hannibal says, and despite their dress, despite the aching months or rage and bitterness, for a moment it's just like before. Just Hannibal and just Will.

* * *

He's silent as he watches Hannibal's eyes flit down to the single tangible point of connection. There's a part of him that feels like he should snatch his hand back because this encounter is bordering on the twisted reunion type and it doesn't sit well with him _._ The only weapon he has is himself - his hands (intimate, personal) - but he doesn't quite feel up for the challenge. He's dreamed of shoving his thumbs into Hannibal's eye sockets like Gideon had done to the nurse... ( _SEE? Not anymore, fucker._ )

But. no, Will isn't here to attack.

Of all the things Hannibal _could_ have spoken about, he dredges up Freddie Lounds and her despicable act of snapping up pictures of him while recovering. Will's grip tightens for a moment (and he wishes there wasn't leather and clothing between them, but simply his flesh on Hannibal's bare arm). This isn't what he wants to think or talk about, he's not interested in the supporting cast. Screw Freddie. Screw Jack. Screw Alana. (Whatever's left of him is Hannibal's. There's no breaking the damn thread. Hannibal can be his judge and executioner; Hannibal is practiced in that role already.)

"I don't care about Freddie," Will retorts, leaving off the 'right now' because yes, there's a part that does want to punish her.

* * *

Hannibal has dreamed about Will's hands when he dares to dream. The drop of a gun, the sudden desperate, agonized clutching at his shoulders, and Will's hands forming what feels like permanent brands into his skin as his chin nestles into Hannibal's shoulder. Hannibal has dreamed of holding him like he's precious, of Will's choked, desperate sounds of agony, and blood spilling wet and hot on the floor between them. Like this, solid and alive, his hand firm and gripping without pained desperation, Hannibal decides that for a ghost - for a shade of a man - Will Graham looks as good as he can.

There are flickers in Will's eyes, whispers in the dark, and Hannibal wonders what he would find there were they both able to properly see. Not even he is aware of what he's doing right now. He cannot remain here, not so close to the crime, and yet how can he leave with Will's touch on him? Bitterness and betrayal, a bloody baptism, an attempt to sever impossible ties. Hannibal is as caught in Will's orbit now as he was before. Arguably more.

He doesn't reach out. He aches to touch, to slide his hand along Will's jaw, to feel the thrumming beat of his pulse under his fingers. He doesn't. Instead he traces his gaze slowly over Will like a physical touch, noting the upturned collar, noting that _this_ feels like Will Graham more than the shade in his kitchen.

"Then what do you care about, Will?" Hannibal asks quietly, barely a whisper in the silence. " _Who_ do you care about?"

* * *

He knows he's set himself up for the line of questioning. Hannibal speaks softly, but it might as well be a scream as Will tenses. What he cares about.... _Who_ he cares about... Isn't it obvious enough? Will had left the remnants of his old life behind, got on a boat, and sailed across an ocean in search of Hannibal (and maybe himself, too). After months apart, seeing and feeling Hannibal has began to chip away at the gnawing loneliness, for sediment has built up around Will's heart. (And maybe Hannibal is the fix; after all, his insides are still broken.)

It's a weak thing to do, but his feet shuffle him closer yet and Will bows his head, resting it against Hannibal's chest in between the opening of the jacket. _Forgive me Father, for I have sinned..._ (And the fact that Will feels _guilty_ \- burdened - is a testament to just how fucked up this relationship is.) But he wants forgiveness - wants acceptance - Will needs to be back in Hannibal's good graces, but Hannibal is withholding and the lack of warmth and touch is a silent judgment that he's deemed _unworthy_.

"You, of course," Will says on a sigh. "Despite my better judgement and reason."

* * *

The answer Hannibal expects and the one he wants to hear are two different things. He's quiet as he looks at this broken creature. Will's insides may once again be safe and secured behind skin that is laughably fragile, but Hannibal can still see the injuries in a metaphorical sense. He's wounded, dripping blood and gore behind his delicate mask. Will's eyes have changed, he decides. Will looks more _himself_ now, yes, but his eyes are different. Gone is the softer light from before the encephalitis had torn him asunder and gone is the haze of numb manipulation Hannibal had once read as sincerity. Will looks pained now, but solid. Pain and foundation, where they've both built their homes. Not even Hannibal knows if the foundation beneath them is solid stone or sand.

And how fitting that once again - on the dawning of whatever has clawed to the surface of this new life of theirs - Will surprises Hannibal. He steps in close and while Hannibal expects a blow or a hidden blade, instead Will cuts him with something far sharper. He presses his forehead to Hannibal's chest, leaning in against him as if in supplication, and Hannibal cannot cover the unsteadiness in his breathing with Will so close. He _aches_ to touch, to wind his arms around this reckless creature and steal him away properly as he had once intended. There's a chasm of feeling between them and Hannibal can taste tension on his tongue.

Instead he lifts a hand. It presses soft and slow to the small of Will's back - an acknowledgement and nothing more, though it is agony to hold himself in check.

"You came here alone?" Hannibal queries, though he already knows the answer is _no_. But Will's hallucination seems to have long since slid away. "Does Jack know?"

* * *

When Hannibal's hand is placed on him, it feels a bit like the prodigal son returning home. Relief rushes in and Will has to swallow back the sound that wants to escape. It takes a conscious effort to hold himself still, but he can't fall apart, not here. (Maybe not _unworthy_ after all?) Despite the lightness of the touch and the layers of clothing, Will feels like they've completed a circuit, electricity flowing in between them. There's certainly a magnetic pull, because Will knows this all is tantamount to madness, and yet like a car crash, he can't turn away. (Helpless?) Maybe it's not the fucking red thread at all and he's just lost his marbles. (‘ _You're already_ _dead_ …’ Is he hoping for a miracle, for Hannibal's acceptance and forgiveness to perform a resurrection? But u'nlike Lazarus, Will isn't a righteous man.)

At the question, Will goes rigid. He thinks of the bloody farewell on the stairs with Abigail. Will met her while she had been bleeding out in the Hobbs' family kitchen and lost her amidst streams of their blood converging in Hannibal's own. Death and taxes? Not in Will's world, more like death and kitchens. He almost shares the joke, but he can't muster the effort it would require.

"I'm alone, but likely he'll follow," Will replies. Maybe they were all helpless. Hapless at the very least. Tangled up in Hannibal's web.

* * *

Of course. Jack Crawford, ever just. The charging white bull tossing his horns, unrepentant. Hannibal's expression remains impassive though he hardly needs to put forth the effort in the dark, with Will's forehead pressed to his chest. Rationally Hannibal is aware that Will could have hidden anything away in his jacket. This, like every moment before Will had shown up in his kitchen, soaked from head to toe with his gun drawn and eyes wide, could be a deception. Will could be counting on his blindness, could be banking on his trust to enable him to get close enough to draw a weapon and attack. There's tension in Will's body. It's possible. Yet as Hannibal looks down at him and breathes, each breath rustling a stray lock of Will's hair in the darkness of the catacombs, he doesn't think that is this game.

He's not entirely certain _he_ doesn't intend to use the knife in his zipped pocket. He could. It would be so easy to rid himself of this accursed man for good, but Hannibal knows better. Bedelia is cultured and composed, a fine traveling companion, but she isn't Will. No one is Will. The months without him have been agonizing and there have been many times Hannibal has considered merely slitting Bedelia's throat and shoving her into the river. Her only crime? That she's not Will Graham and her presence pales in comparison.

Hannibal's hand splays wide on Will's back and he can only just feel his heat through his jacket. (The fires of betrayal, or a welcoming hearth?)

"Then perhaps it would be prudent to not be seen with me when he does arrive. Jack Crawford is not a man to merely allow a trail to go cold. He'll be out for blood."

* * *

He's courting chaos. Where's his drive for self-preservation? (Somewhere lost in the mix of madness and marbles, red threads and thoughts of resurrections?) Will feels a hysterical laugh want to burst out of him. Has he always been like this? So maladaptive and neurotic? The encephalitis is gone, and yet he hallucinates and his head feels unhinged, connections sparking and going haywire, dreams and reality blurring. Is it the cost of his imagination or mental illness finally making a stand? He's got the esteemed Doctor Lecter here - he could inquire, take up his therapy a third time. Now that’s laughable.

He _should_ be filled with fury at Hannibal unleashing his wrath upon Abigail, but Will knows the anger is buried far beneath the hurt and abandonment (for how else could he view Hannibal leaving him alive and taking off with Bedelia?) He _shouldn't_ be resting his weary head on Hannibal, searching in the dark for some measure of peace and yet he knows he's always been this reckless man (never the righteous man, never the good man despite his efforts).

When he feels the move of fingers, Will's eyes slip shut. They don't stay that way because Hannibal's words shake him. They imply Hannibal having no intention for them to leave this place of worship _together_. All these months apart, all the miles and for what? For Hannibal to suggest being prudent and practical (as if there isn't a fucking red thread wrapped around Hannibal too). Desperation spikes and as it does a most audacious idea takes over his mind. Will lowers himself to his knees, his hand sliding inside Hannibal’s jacket to his waist. His nuzzles at Hannibal's crotch with his face, his submission a blatant plea. They've never been sexual, but certain looks have lingered from Hannibal...

* * *

Pragmatism is painful right now. Practicality feels like a garrote around Hannibal's throat, but there are too many unknown variables in this equation for the timing to be proper. He'd not anticipated Will's words, hadn't expected _forgiveness_ , and set plans have tripped and stumbled over themselves. There isn't a cell in Hannibal's body that doesn't wish to merely gather Will into his arms and steal him away. To wind his arms around this broken creature, branded forever with Hannibal's weakness (he hadn't been able to kill him) and disappear. Leave Bedelia to the police, to Jack Crawford, and take Will instead. The more fanciful, romantic notions in Hannibal's mind ache and cry to show Will this city, to show him Florence and Paris and the finest culture Europe can offer.

But the timing isn't right. To leave Jack a substitute but steal his prized (broken) pony away will only enrage him. Hannibal knows that when Jack next sees him, he will try to kill him. He will not be operating under the guise of the FBI. If Hannibal steals Will away now, it is likely Jack will be blinded in the moment. Much as he aches to simply damn the rest of the world and deal with the consequences of Will's betrayal later, Hannibal cannot put him at risk. Hannibal feels Will tense under his hand and he swears he can taste his desperation upon the air. And this is... new. Hannibal's lips pull into a small, curious frown. Will Graham is many things but he is not _desperate._

Something simultaneously hot and cold settles in Hannibal's chest as Will suddenly moves. He's slow as he drops to his knees on the cold, stone floors and Hannibal's breath catches in shocked surprise when Will leans in. He's bold, his cheek a warm, _intimate_ pressure, Will's hand on his waist. It's submissive. It's blatant. It's Will Graham _begging_. Heat and fire flare under his skin and his hand comes to Will's hair without thinking. Hannibal's plans skip like his pulse, tripping and stumbling, for he'd never hoped to imagine...

...and neither had Will. Clarity is a bitter pill to swallow, but once the shock wears off, Hannibal realizes what this is. He looks down at this _broken man_ desperately clinging to a shade. This is physically Will Graham, but he is not emotionally present. There's no rage, no fire, no divine retribution. There's only desperation and fear, a mask over the creature Hannibal wants. He looks down at him with a deep disappointment and when he draws a small breath, it's used to calm himself down. Hannibal's hand strokes slowly through Will's hair.

"Will," he says quietly, "are you certain?" Hannibal can't hide the near-trace of heat in his voice, but he moves on quickly. "If this is what you want... would you allow me to kiss you first?"

* * *

Will can't be left again. He _won't_ be left again. He'll suck up his pride (surely he has _some_ left) and go to his knees. He's on another floor of sorts, but this time it's of his own volition. He nuzzles at Hannibal's crotch - a flagrant action reeking of desperation and recklessness - but it's not truly him. He has no genuine interest in sucking Hannibal's dick right now. He's straight. Or at least always has been. Will knows there's _something_ between them, some undercurrent that's persisted despite all the bullshit. Until now it's been largely unexplored and maybe he's just skipping ahead ten steps. Desperate times and all...

So yeah, Will is going to debase himself to hopefully gain Hannibal's favor in the process. He rubs against Hannibal's crotch, he nuzzles at his dick. All he can smell is blood, cloying and thick, and his other hand reaches out to skim along the floor in search of - but there's only stone and dirt. In this moment Will doesn't care about Jack and self-respect. He'd called Hannibal and warned him after all, his hands acting before reason could even have a say in the matter. When Hannibal's hand comes to his hair it feels like the hand holding him before the knife plunged in.

No knife comes out to play now, but Will makes a choked sound when Hannibal brushes his fingers through his hair. Kindness....? Hannibal's words surprise Will and he falters in his actions. A kiss? It's manageable, but more personal than what he's currently doing (because he hasn't actually _got_ anywhere yet). Will pulls his head away and steadies himself with his hold on Hannibal's hip. He stands back up.

"You'll kiss me and I'll kiss you?" He offers, almost shyly. Another Even Steven scenario seems fitting. Time to start exploring... Will gazes at Hannibal, his hand still on Hannibal's hip. Will licks his lips before he parts them and waits.

* * *

Will is a desperate, starved creature. A once-proud wolf now skin and bones, flesh sucking tight over his ribs as his tail tries to remember how to wag through atrophy. Hannibal wonders just how thin Will has become after his lengthy recovery, wonders if the gash in his middle pains him even now. Had getting to his knees hurt? Will standing up? And will any of it hurt more than what Hannibal knows he must do? Somehow the latter is what Hannibal doubts the most. But this creature desperately nuzzling the crux of his legs, desperate for scraps of attention, is not the proud beast Hannibal has come to admire. He's begging, willing to compromise himself out of fear and desperation and this is not how Hannibal wants this moment to transpire.

The thought of denying Will anything is physically painful so the touch to Will's hair - though he cannot truly feel it through the soft leather of his gloves - is gentle as if in apology. Will looks surprised for a moment and Hannibal attempts to lock out the lingering sensation. He doesn't want to know how Will feels nuzzling so close when it's borne of desperation and not another motivation. His fingers curl in Will's hair again, expression as impassive as he can make it, but there is a wistful affection hidden behind his eyes. He aches to take this man and run. Instead he carefully reaches down and slides a hand under Will's arm as he stands, assisting him to his feet.

Hannibal takes great care not to cup Will's face. He doesn't want a Pavlovian response to something he'd once intended to be pure. Instead he clasps Will's shoulder and watches as Will wets his lips. Hannibal wipes his expression of regret and draws in a careful breath.

"I'll kiss you, and if you wish to reciprocate, you may." Hannibal leans in just a little closer and draws in a deeper breath of Will's scent. it's shrouded by the scents of their surroundings but underneath is the earthen sweetness that is Will Graham.

"You forgive me. After everything. You're certain?"

* * *

The prospect of locking lips with Hannibal ought to feel far stranger and daunting, yet it somehow doesn't. A kiss with the Devil himself? Why not? Will's already been wound up, studied, betrayed, hurt, gutted and abandoned. He's the walking dead, sewn up and presentable, but rotten on the inside. He's pushed his shame and pride to the wayside and slid down to his knees for Hannibal.

But he's here now, gazing into Hannibal's unreadable face, searching dark eyes. Why does Hannibal _feel_ so far away when they're standing so close? Why is Hannibal grasping his shoulder and not cupping his face? Isn't this them stepping into the roles of fated lovers? Everything feels just slightly off, the fit isn't right, like a shirt one size too small. This isn't what Will's dreamed of. (For yes, he's dreamed of such an event transpiring, but it was never like this, never with so many questions directed his way, never with Hannibal being so cold...)

Even with his doubts, Will stands his ground. He doesn't even try to form an argument and dress the peculiarities.

_'You forgive me. After everything. You're certain?'_

"Yes," Will says. He is already dead, but perhaps Hannibal can perform a miracle.

* * *

_'Yes.'_

One word has never held this much power. Hannibal's response is muted, schooled, carefully folded in on itself to only take up the least amount of space possible. Disappointment carves a slow path through his veins like a contrast dye and the smile that flickers behind his eyes is almost sad. This fish is too small, all skin and bones, and Hannibal hates that he must cut the line, return the fish to the ocean to fatten up and learn to fear baited lures properly. His hand gently squeezes Will's shoulder and Hannibal merely takes a moment in these dark, dreary catacombs - the land of the dead - to drink in every second of Will's expression. He maps his hair and eyes, the gaunt lines of his cheeks and the lips he does ache to kiss one day. Every moment is stored away.

Then Hannibal leans in slowly. He takes his time, building anticipation as he closes the distance between them, and only when Will's posture begins to relax, when his eyes begin to flicker shut does Hannibal fight past the desire to stop and instead does what he has to.

He's quick and he's merciful. With a smooth sidestep, Hannibal ducks behind Will and as he does so, his hand slides over to press gently but firmly against Will's throat. The leather against Will's throat is butter-soft as Hannibal grips him fully and his free arm moves to wrestle Will's arms behind his back. He's almost laughably weak with trust and Hannibal closes his eyes against the surge of disappointment as he grips Will's throat and holds him close. He's as gentle as he can be as he restrains Will, tipping his head back against Hannibal's shoulder.

"No, you don't," Hannibal says sadly, "not yet. Rest, Will. Find Jack. Make certain he doesn't suspect you."

Hannibal tilts his head and his lips press high against Will's cheek, higher than his stubble grows. It's a soft kiss, aching, but Hannibal does always keep his promises.

* * *

His answer does not bring Hannibal's mouth any nearer to his own. What else must Will do? He's already left everything behind: his dogs, his home, his old life. He's shown submission, shown just how much Hannibal has ruined him. Does Hannibal no longer want him now that he's been chewed up and his cotton hastily stuffed back in like a well-loved child's toy? Was Bedelia Du Maurier the new model? Shinier? Sleeker? He sees and feels Hannibal's eyes assessing him and _unworthy_ bubbles up to the surface again. (He has all the reason in the world to hate this man and yet Will craves his companionship and acceptance.) So low... he's been brought so low, surely crawling in the gutter but looking up to the heavens for answers.

His answer comes - or starts to - Hannibal advancing, Will's heart longs for this connection to be made, his eyes sliding shut (because this is their own version of a corrupt fairytale). But as Hannibal shifts and their mouths do not meet, the moment is clearly another example of Lucy snatching the football away. Hannibal is fast, darting behind him and Will's eyes snap open in distress. A hand clad in leather wraps around his throat while the other wrangles Will's arms behind his back. Panic shoots through him and he struggles. (He's found his desire for self-preservation but it's too late.)

Hannibal is stronger and there's no mistake that Hannibal is choking him. The dead continue to listen, but there's no judgments and no help. Will tries to break free because apparently he _is alive._ He doesn't want to die here, not after _everything._ Fuck that. This can't be the end he's been searching for. Hannibal's words barely register as Will jerks in the hold, trying to gasp for breath. No he doesn't what? Not yet? Rest? (Eternally or...?)

Will loses consciousness, the fight dissipating. Later on, he'll wonder if Hannibal _did_ place a kiss on his cheek.

* * *

It aches to do this, to once again take Will from a position of trust to one of panic. He could have killed this man the last time he'd held him so close but not even his anger and his hurt had been enough to sign Will's death warrant. Hannibal takes no pleasure in this. There's a flicker of chaotic satisfaction for he will never cease being a sadist, but the ache far outshines anything else.

In his arms, Will struggles. Hannibal holds him fast and silently notes how weak Will feels. He'd been strong before his injury. Perhaps he still is but Hannibal's recollection is merely off. Perhaps he simply wishes to fool himself so that this moment takes less time. He feels Will struggle, feels him try to break free. Will jerks and twists and Hannibal moves his hand accordingly so as not to crush Will's trachea. He takes great care to not cut off blood flow and when Will's struggles begin to fade, when his movements become heavy and sluggish, Hannibal merely holds him tight and breathes him in, taking Will's weight before he can collapse.

Silently Hannibal bends down and slowly lays Will down on the ground, pillowing a hand under his head. He casts about for only a moment and then carefully sets one finger of his glove between his teeth. He pulls it off, sets it on the ground, and then does the same with the other (supporting Will's head with his free hand and trying not to focus on the touch of his hair.) By the time he lets Will's head settle on the ground, it's on both gloves. He keeps his head turned to the side and quickly checks his airway, then - on a whim - Hannibal sits back on his heels and slips off his jacket. He lays it carefully over Will's prone form and allows himself a single brush of his fingers back through Will's hair. Then he stands, casts one final look down at Will Graham, and turns.

Everything in him aches to go back and merely gather him in his arms. He doesn't. Instead he leaves Will on the ground, covered in the black leather with one of Hannibal's knives heavy in the pocket. When Will wakes, he'll know Hannibal _could_ have killed him but had elected not to. As Hannibal ducks out of the catacombs and into the harsh light outside, he only wishes it made him feel differently.


	2. House on the bluff

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They are adrift at sea, the both of them, two monsters - one old, one new - attempting to touch without clawing, to kiss without consuming. Is it a hopeless endeavor? Likely, yes. Yet Will has ensured it is one Hannibal will attempt. Like the good fisherman he is, he's used the only lure Hannibal could possibly care about: Will himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let's get the show on the road? Fic on the road? (๑❛ᴗ❛๑)
> 
> Merry's [tumblr](http://merrythought.tumblr.com) | Dapperscript's [tumblr](http://reallymisscoffee.tumblr.com/)  
> 

Disoriented, Will wakes to a member of clergy shaking him and uttering softly in Italian. His own good Samaritan here to help after he's been accosted. It's fitting. Will accepts the help up. He's dazed, neck tender and likely bruised. Ultimately he finds himself abandoned yet again. (That buried anger is heating up.) There's an obvious language barrier and hand gestures only work for so long. _No_ , he doesn't want to call la polizia. _Yes_ , he’s fine. Eventually his surly attitude and protests have the holy man sending him away with a blessing. (Will doesn't feel blessed.)

Will may have wanted to pretend the encounter was a bad dream, but he has remnants that would contradict that claim - Hannibal's stupid leather jacket and gloves. Not that Will is an expert on such attire, but he's fairly certain they're for riding a motorcycle. Odd... Hannibal on a bike instead of driving a luxury car. The jacket’s pocket also held a knife. Hannibal had laid him to rest with a makeshift pillow and blanket, but also left him a weapon. Will doesn't know what to think.

The moment in the catacombs may not have been the right fit, but curiously, the leather gloves are. He pulls them on and standing naked in front of the hotel bathroom mirror, he wraps his hands around the bruises on his neck and squeezes. It hurts and he _is_ alive.

And angry. The next day he swaps his homey jacket for something more stylish - a dark overcoat that fits better with the gloves.

He hops on a flight to Lithuania, seeking ghosts and possible answers. He's not finished with Hannibal Lecter and he has a knife to return.

*

He's wearing his new coat and Hannibal's gloves. While climbing over the rusted fence, Will remembers that Abigail used to do the same thing with the walls at the Port Haven Psychiatric Facility. Gates, fences, walls, forts - what was the point of such structures when one could find ways around or over?

The estate is large and in disrepair, but it's beautiful in its decay. He can almost picture Hannibal as a small child tromping around with Mischa in tow. (On this very ground, so close to Hannibal’s beginning, Will can't resist holding a conversation with the man in his mind.)

He also can't resist pushing Chiyoh, meddling in her affairs. Her affairs that are intimately attached to Hannibal and even if Hannibal casts him aside, the red string persists between them. It might be a tangled mess, but it's _his_ fucking mess and unfortunately for Chiyoh she gets caught up in it. When he glances down at the fresh corpse, there's a sliver of satisfaction at having a hand in bringing such events to fruition. (It also reminds him that maybe he's not so dead after all.)

When Chiyoh states Hannibal would be proud, that sliver grows from a small crack into a fissure. _Nakama_ , indeed.

It's his hands that construct a firefly from the vile remains. He stitches the man's limbs to his body tightly, the hands clasped in prayer. Will wraps him in cabbage leaves akin to mummification. He crafts a chrysalis from the shells of snails. He works diligently. Pheasant feathers fill out the plumage of the wings. Snails crawl over the entire creation. With the use of a pulley, Will gives his monument flight. Candles flicker. He takes a moment to appreciate the aesthetics.

He takes a moment to _be_ Hannibal.

*

While on the train, he lets himself cave and sleep with the leather jacket clutched to his chest. It no longer smells anything like Hannibal, but it's something real. Chiyoh says nothing as Will folds it and tucks it back into his knapsack. It's a small comfort. Traveling with her isn't so bad. She's interesting, mysterious - a link to a Hannibal Will knows very little of. (He can't bring himself to even be horrified that he's actually jealous over that fact.)

She gets even more interesting as she pushes him from the train. He reaches out... and his stag is there, nudging him to get up. (Will’s never truly alone.) Bloody, muscles aching, he follows it along the tracks. The knife feels heavy in his own coat pocket.

*

Florence is lovely and in distress. Seems like the perfect greeting for him. Will isn't surprised to meet Jack in the midst of it all. Even now there's relief at seeing a friend.

Will turns out to be right for il Mostro did kill Pazzi. The stupid fool...

And Jack wants him to kill Hannibal.

* * *

The return to the grand apartment lacks its usual flourish as Hannibal mulls over each and every detail. He thinks back to the way Will had looked while lying on the cold stone floor, cradled by warmth and Hannibal's scent even if he would wake up alone. Hannibal wonders vaguely if it will work. Would being left once more shake the cobwebs from Will's mind? Would he truly examine the role forgiveness had in their lives? Only time would tell.

Bedelia's presence is tiring. Losing Will again, finding him so broken down that he'd hardly been himself has left a bitter twist in Hannibal's stomach. Not for the first time, but perhaps for the first moment seriously, he considers merely grabbing Bedelia around the throat and feeling the life drain from her body - what he can never do to Will Graham. Hannibal considers the intelligence of lashing out so recklessly and in the end he merely leaves her. They speak - he tells her about having found Will Graham and Will's forgiveness and he takes pleasure in the pregnant pause that befalls her. Forgiveness, betrayer, betrayed. Bedelia asks but Hannibal remains vague. Not merely on the details but in his conversing with her.

"Betrayal and forgiveness is best seen as something more akin to falling in love," she says quietly, pointedly.

"You cannot control with respect to whom you fall in love," Hannibal replies simply, and he doesn't need to look at her to know the light of understanding and fascination has flickered behind her eyes. It's that fascination that will one day get her killed. It is also that fascination that saves her life now.

*

She is the one to take the next life. Technically.

Professor Sogliato is hardly worth the effort Hannibal takes to lure him to the table. He has no immediate plans to kill this insufferable creature here, where it could be most damning, but flickers of impulse have been difficult to temper as of late. Like a blacksmith's hammer to cooling steel, the impulse arises as the man speaks and Hannibal turns his attention to the ice pick in his hands. It's vicarious when he plunges it into the side of Sogliato's head. Jack Crawford's head. Alana Bloom's. Bedelia's. Not Will’s, though. He considers, but revulsion sparks before the thought gets too extreme.

He knows Will Graham has picked his seam into breaking and he is now unraveling, but he takes a twisted satisfaction in Sogliato's confusion, his stop-starts as blood drips down his face. Bedelia is the one to put him out of a misery he cannot comprehend and Hannibal looks at the deceased creature impassively.

It's no secret that he is stirring the waters now. A confrontation is inevitable and Hannibal has never been the type of man to simply wait for life to happen. If Will noticed, someone else will too.

Bedelia notices. She also grows reckless - a perfect counterpoint. Hannibal feeds what remains of Sogliato to the museum curator and his wife, and he makes the mistake of mentioning his sister in passing. Later, Hannibal gives serious consideration to wrapping his hands around Bedelia's throat and shoving her into the bathwater when she asks him how his sister tasted. A frisson of reckless rage makes his hands still, but he allows her to live. He doesn't notice the subtle manipulative twist, his thoughts wound so tightly around Will Graham that Bedelia is left undisturbed, digging slowly away at what remains of him.

*

Pazzi is a familiar, weathered face from decades ago. When Hannibal first sees him, he expects an immediate altercation but it becomes very quickly apparent that this man is no longer the staple of justice he once believed himself to be. Pazzi wants to play the game, so Hannibal allows it. He enjoys it in a sense, skirting danger, but the thrill is paltry compared to the thrill he'd often experienced in Will's presence. Predictably, after attempting to play nice, the fool does make a mistake, and Hannibal takes great delight in answering Pazzi's phone for him once he's tied up. He takes pleasure in speaking with Alana - in knowing she is working with Mason - and when he guts Pazzi and throws him to hang out of the window, he is not surprised to see Jack Crawford looking up at him from the street.

Breadcrumbs have been laid for some time. Hannibal's almost disappointed it's taken Jack this long. But time doesn't quell the altercation, and when Jack approaches him on silent feet and Hannibal is thrown off balance, crashing through a display case, he finds himself glad that Will is not here. The fight is brutal. Jack sets the tone nicely as Hannibal tries to reach a weapon and pain explodes violent and cold in his right calf. Muscle and flesh tear as it becomes clear that Jack is done chasing Hannibal down. He doesn't run after him. He merely hooks him (literally) and drags him back, and regardless of how Hannibal lashes out, each resulting blow is concussive in its severity.

A breaking wheel, small, stinging cuts to his face from the glass, and despite the raging creature before him, Hannibal's thoughts drift to Will. Each blow is concussive enough to send agony through him and yet Hannibal cannot help but remember Will's prone form, cannot help remembering the way he'd lowered himself to his knees in the catacombs. Hannibal accepts a blow for each failure. For each moment he has undoubtedly let Will down, and as Hannibal manages to come to rest on the windowsill, he wonders idly how Will might respond to his death. Surely relief will be in the mix somewhere, but he does wonder if Will would find Jack and end him for this.

They'll never know. For while a part of Hannibal believes death would be fitting and peaceful, once he’s knocked out of the window and the world rushes by him, preservation kicks in. Like an animal, Hannibal lashes out and gropes for something - _anything_ \- and he finds Pazzi's body. The drop to the ground is jarring but Hannibal manages. He limps off, leaving Jack, and wonders how long it will be before Will finds him again.

*

His injuries are extensive. Each step is agony and there are wounds that require stitching. Hannibal remains impartial as Bedelia treats the wounds, as ice brings down swelling and thick sponges clean away blood. His calf is a mess that requires heavy stitching and thick bandages and his arm requires resetting. Yet as he bears the care and muses on the altercation, one thing is certain.

He needs to leave.

It's a shame. He would have loved Will to see Florence with him.

* * *

Will had believed getting his head sawed open by Hannibal (and in Jack's company) to be a bleak way to go, but turns out he was wrong. Having Cordell transplant his face onto Mason and Mason _eating_ Hannibal with it afterwards _is_ actually a far worse fate. Fuck the lot of 'em - fucked up sadistic fuckers. Surely more fucked up than Hannibal and he were. At least he left Cordell a nice parting gift, a reminder that he wasn't a docile creature who wouldn't fight back. It's a small consolation but it does make Will feel slightly better. (It had been sickly satisfying to rip that chunk of flesh from Cordell's smug face and spit it out on the plate. Of course Hannibal had been amused too.) He eventually dissociates from the pain of the scalpel. He wonders if Hannibal thought his face was nice too...

Some time later Will blinks slowly. He still feels like himself - like his face hasn't been removed like a mask for another to don, but he can't move. His eyes search the room. A bleary image of Hannibal comes into focus.

Will has a few select words to say but he can't open his mouth. His eyes droop closed again. Maybe it's a dream, for why would Hannibal come to his rescue? Hadn't he been branded as food? Will passes out, thinking of his noose. Red... The thread is red from being soaked in blood.

*

He smells blood and hears the crunch of snow under labored footsteps. His tongue feels thick and his mouth dry. He hears the sound of gun shots, but it's not him hit this time - thank God. He's really not up to being shot at anymore. His shoulder throbs. His face aches. Will wakes to Hannibal carrying him bridal style, for who else could it be?

When he finally pries his eyes open, Will makes out Hannibal covered in blood. Is it his or Mason's men? Hannibal is moving despite whatever possible injuries he's obtained so Will isn't too worried. Hannibal can obviously take care of himself.

"Not leaving me this time?"

Will slips out of consciousness, unaware of the answer Hannibal gives to him (if any).

*

The next time Will comes to he's aware that he's in a moving car, laid down on the backseat. He hears voices - male and female - but it's in another language. A moment later the puzzle pieces fit into place. The language is Japanese and it's Chiyoh and Hannibal. Chiyoh must be driving for he glimpses Hannibal sitting in the passenger seat. It's irritating to not know what they're saying but Will feels like he would rather rest than deal with _these two_.

* * *

It turns out that despite Hannibal's lapse, despite his attempt to rid himself of the man who had slid his very foundation out from underneath his feet, there is very little that Hannibal would not do for Will Graham.

It's an odd sensation to feel _gratitude_ for a capture. Despite the agony of his flesh melting into a permanently-burned brand upon his back, Hannibal holds himself above the pain. He merely distances himself from it, not giving his captors the satisfaction, and in his mind he simply sees Will, his lips bloodied as he'd spat out a chunk of Cordell's cheek. Hannibal isn't concerned. He knows this is temporary. He knows he will find a way out of this - will break his own wrist and rip his hand free if it means escaping the ties he's eventually put in. Though as pain sears hot through him he cannot help but feel grateful that he had _not_ been allowed to kill Will back in Florence. The memory is hazy from a likely concussion. Why had he...?

He hadn't. That's what matters. Branded, stripped naked, tied up like one of Mason’s own pigs, Hannibal kneels, his muscles seizing but his mind feeling clear. He knows what Mason intends, so when Alana comes to him with her soft request, he merely looks at her in silence, makes his promise, and wonders if she even knows the beast she'd just unleashed.

The guards don't know what hit them. Were Hannibal a better man, perhaps he'd have felt bad for them, but he doesn't. He tears through them with every ounce of rage he has within him and his mind has eclipsed to a singularity, the only star in his sky: Will Graham. It's bloody and inelegant. There is no class to these kills. They're quick and messy. A knife in a chest, an evisceration, using another guard as a shield for the bullets flying his way. Five... six... seven... Seven men in that first hallway and they are not the only men Hannibal kills that evening. There are two more floors to reach before he finds Will and more bodies line the way, trailing a fine line of blood - a thread - leading him to Will.

*

Cordell doesn't know Hannibal is in the room when he falls. Hannibal merely sneaks in quietly, takes one look at the scalpel beginning to cut deep into Will's face. He takes in the sight of him, still, pale, strapped and secured, and Hannibal's rage eclipses into cold. He removes his shoes at the door - blood will stick and alert his mark - and he wanders quietly to the counter. The paralytic remains and Hannibal eyes it impassively before understanding dawns. Will is paralyzed. He's not unconscious.

When the needle plunges into Cordell's neck, he doesn't even cry. Hannibal catches his wrist and watches the wild panic of understanding light and he merely offers the man a bloodied, gory smile. "Even Steven," he says pleasantly, and Cordell twitches as his limbs seize and then give out. Hannibal transplants him to the table and picks up the scalpel he'd dropped. He cleans it - this creature doesn't deserve Will's blood - and while he considers killing Mason where he remains, that had not been the deal. Instead he delights in the wild, rolling eyes of Cordell as he takes his face. Skin sucks like suction cups and Hannibal flicks his exposed teeth with the scalpel blade. It takes time for Cordell to bleed out once his face is gone. In that time, Hannibal washes his hands and goes looking for sutures.

He finds them and walks to Will - donning surgical gloves as he cleans the wound, cleans the cutting-lines from his face, and gives him a local anesthetic for the area. It won't numb it all, but it will numb the worst of it. Hannibal quickly stitches up the paper-thin wounds with great care and then grabs a pen-light from the table. He carefully opens one of Will's eyes with his thumb and watches the sluggish reaction of his pupil. Unconscious then. Likely for the best.

Hannibal fulfills Alana's bargain and together they milk the semen from Mason Verger with a cattle prod. Mason gains a new face in exchange. Hannibal delights in the horror-strewn look on her face as she witnesses this. Margot only looks grim. He then gathers Will up into his arms. He looks at Alana only once more.

"I kidnapped him," he says calmly, and while Alana looks like she wishes to argue, Margot merely sets a hand on her arm, nods at Hannibal, and turns away.

"I'll need to send the guards," she says quietly.

"Of course." Hannibal, grimaces at the agony that flares through him, and then turns. He finds clothing for Will in a guest bedroom and dresses him silently, brushing the hair from his eyes with a delicate touch. It's good Will is not conscious for this.

*

The gunshots ring over his head thrice. Hannibal tenses, expecting pain, expecting the worst, but then he realizes the trajectory of the sound. He looks back and sees three men slumped dead in the snow, hesitates, and then looks ahead. Her presence is fine in the tree and Hannibal looks. It’s good to see her shooting again. His breathing is rough as he carries Will through the snow, the cold deep enough to help his legs but the struggle substantial. He merely holds Will closer with a single-minded focus and trusts.

Chiyoh shoots five men in total. Hannibal hears others who turn and run. He won't be followed. But he's not expecting the soft voice in his arms and while Will's body is still rigid with paralysis, his words give Hannibal pause. He aches.

"No. Not this time," he promises, though with Will closing his eyes, it’s likely that he’s unconscious again.

*

Chiyoh meets him at the road, standing in front of a black Ford Fusion. She's quiet as she looks at him, then at Will. Neither of them speak until Hannibal clears his throat pointedly. Only then does she open the door and Hannibal steps over. He carefully sets Will down in the back seat and once again he gives up his jacket for Will, draping it over him carefully despite the blood. Chiyoh allows him the time, allows him the care, and says nothing. She lets him cater to Will and after a moment, she wanders to the trunk of the car, opens it, and pulls out a blanket.

Hannibal eyes it for a moment, then nods. He takes his jacket, folds it into a makeshift pillow, and gingerly lifts Will's head to let him rest, then covers him with the blanket.

"I believe we should leave," Hannibal tells Chiyoh in Japanese. They don't greet each other; they don't need to. Chiyoh merely slips into the driver's seat and Hannibal closes Will's door and walks to the passenger's side.

They don't say much on the drive at first, but then Chiyoh's voice sounds meeker. She asks about Mischa in soft Japanese and Hannibal tells her he didn't kill her. It seems to satisfy her enough to relax her shoulders.

"It's good to see you," Chiyoh says, and it's like no time has passed.

*

Hannibal directs her to the house on the Bluff. It's eroding slowly, year by year. Abigail and Miriam are gone from the grounds but Will Graham is here. The house's newest addition. Chiyoh takes one look, nods, and gets to work. She leaves Hannibal to carry Will to a room close to the Master suite, just across the hall. It's large and spacious and open, in bright, cheery colors and a bed that likely needs the sheets changed sometime soon. Later, though. Once Will is rested.

Chiyoh comes in once Hannibal has Will tucked into the bed. She leaves a simple knapsack behind, but says nothing of it. Then she eyes Hannibal and frowns. "You need tending to," she says, "tend to him once he's awake. You both need to rest."

For once, though he's tempted to, Hannibal doesn't argue.

* * *

Exhaustion of both a physical and mental nature claim Will. He does not wake again on the journey nor as he's transported to a soft bed. He dreams of trying to climb up Pazzi's entrails to Hannibal. Hannibal, fierce and inscrutable as ever, looks down at him from the Palazzo Capponi. But Hannibal is no fair maiden waiting to be rescued and as Will's hands slip again and again on Pazzi's guts, Hannibal shakes his head and turns away, as if the sight is too pathetic to witness. _Unworthy_...

It's Will who has been rescued in the end. First snatched away from Hannibal's dinner table and then again at Muskrat Farm. He's had enough near death experiences to last an entire lifetime. What awaits him here?

...Wherever here is. Will wakes to the presence of sunlight and warmth streaming in from a window. And then his many numerous aches and pains greet him. He's not tied down or handcuffed. He's in a nicely furnished room with what looks like it has its own bathroom even. Then there's fucking Hannibal asleep in a chair that looks like it was dragged into the room explicitly for the purpose of allowing Hannibal to keep watch over him. Everything is quiet except for their breathing. (The only time he's seen Hannibal asleep was next to Abigail at the hospital, his hand outstretched-- She really had reached back, not that it had done her any good.)

As he sits up, careful of his shoulder injury, Will's alerted to the fact that he's been changed into a loose fitting sleeveless undershirt. And his bandage has been changed. And he's wearing black silk pyjama pants. And nothing else underneath. Will sighs. He'd rather be in clean clothing than not (although his skin still feels dirty and his mouth fuzzy). He doesn't have the energy to be embarrassed that he's been changed without his knowledge. It's like being at the hospital all over again.

The door to his room opens half way and Chiyoh's slender form fills it. She addresses Will with narrowed eyes. "I am going on an errand. If you try and harm him, you will regret it." The delivery is soft, but the threat is real. Will believes her. She says nothing else as she makes her leave. She's dangerous, Will knows this now... The desire to protect Hannibal at all costs, and the fortitude to not bend to Hannibal’s whims and games.

When Hannibal stirs, Will glances over to him. He has the silly idea of pulling up the bedsheets to cover himself, but he's actually dressed. He had wanted more time to prepare for this - whatever this is - but Hannibal, of course, doesn't want to cooperate.

* * *

Chiyoh is careful with Hannibal's wounds and Hannibal praises her with silent cooperation as he allows her to work. She says nothing on the severity of his wounds, though he does register her pregnant pause when she notes the Verger brand for the first time. As she exposes Hannibal’s back to the air, her touch is careful and just barely restrained with her anger. He can feel the slight tremble in her fingers but he says nothing outside of a firm direction to mix up sea salt in warm water to create a saline rinse. It's silent agony that he puts himself above and by the end of it, Chiyoh's hands are shaking more than his own. She says nothing, merely does what she's told, and in time Hannibal has a dry non-stick dressing over the brand, taped down and still agonizing but he lets it slide.

The stitches on his calf need to be redone, as do the bandages. Hannibal makes a point to wash first - to shower with tegaderm over the brand - and while losing the coating of blood helps him feel less horrid, the stitching is still unpleasant.

He's the one to tend to Will's wounds. Chiyoh looks uncomfortable at the idea of leaving them alone but he insists, asking for privacy, and she relents. Hannibal takes the time to strip Will down and give him a cursory wash while he sleeps. He cleans each wound carefully, checks Will's stitches, and changes his bandages. It takes him time but like this Hannibal can reassure himself that he'd been in time. The wound to Will's forehead is what truly gives him pause. He covers it with a thicker gauze, as if obscuring it could mitigate his mistake.

He dresses Will in loose silk pants and an undershirt, then drags a chair into the room. Hannibal doesn't necessarily intend to sleep. He fully expects to be awake when Will comes to, and the book on his lap likely says as much when Will finally stirs. The fact of the matter, however, is that even Hannibal is human. His body needs the rest. Despite his attempts, he does sleep through Will waking, leaning back in the chair, dressed in a pair of softer dress slacks and a thick, high-necked, blue cable-knit sweater. He doesn't hear Will stir. He almost doesn't hear Chiyoh approach, but ultimately - after a good five hours' rest - Hannibal does finally rouse at the sound of a voice.

Eyelids opening like they weigh a ton, Hannibal stirs slowly. It's unlike him to be so unaware. He looks at the closed door, then his gaze immediately tracks to the bed as if remembering _why_ he'd chosen to sleep here. The sight of Will awake sends an odd flicker behind Hannibal's eyes. He's quiet for a moment, simply taking in the sight of him there and _awake_ , and then he draws in a deeper breath and slowly, painfully sits straighter again.

"Hello, Will," Hannibal says with a sleep-rough voice. His hair is a bit of a mess. "How do you feel?"

* * *

Hannibal looks like shit. They both do, surely - like they've been to Hell and back (he thinks Muskrat Farm is close enough). Will is in no hurry to take a look at his appearance, to catalog each bruise and cut. The gauze feels scratchy on his forehead, but he keeps himself from picking at it. He has no idea what other injuries Mason saw fit to exact on Hannibal nor the extent of those the man received from Jack. Hannibal hadn't complained in Florence and as he sits up straighter now, Will has no doubt that Hannibal doesn't want to show him weakness. Hannibal would rather stoically suffer in silence and all that bullshit.

At seeing the sleep tousled hair, Will thinks about Hannibal possibly riding a bike while in Europe - of helmet hair. His eyes then see a familiar-looking knapsack on another chair in the room. Apparently Chiyoh brought it with her. How thoughtful. Is the jacket--

_'Hello, Will.'_

The same two words Hannibal had opened with in the catacombs. Will's eyebrows draw in, but the tape on his forehead pulls against his skin and he's forced to relax. He shifts in bed, eyes refocusing on his left hand that is apparently gripping onto the comforter rather tightly. He relaxes it too. The casual inquiry into how he _feels_ has Will looking back up to Hannibal with an incredulous expression.

"Like I've been pushed off a train, taken a bullet, been intimate with a saw and had my face nearly cut off," Will answers pointedly. "I also have a headache. And now I'm wondering what's next. Am I going to be dinner again once you feel up to it?"

Not even three days ago Hannibal had apparently intended to eat him and feed him to Jack; Will isn't sure if anything has changed. Perhaps Hannibal saved him because he didn't feel like sharing his toy with Mason. He _is_ Hannibal's, after all. If Hannibal wants him broken, Hannibal will be the one to do it.

* * *

The question is hardly intelligent but it's polite to ask. Hannibal's mind feels hazy from days of sub-par rest and an influx of pain that had long crossed the line into torture. He can bear it well but that doesn't mean he doesn't feel the agony of each wound acutely. His only consolation is the brand eclipses all else. His calf aches but the ache is so insubstantial compared to the brand on his skin that Hannibal doubts it will bother him much. Comparatively he can hardly feel the cuts to his face, nor the stab-wound to his back from Mason's knife. The concussive blows from Jack are another matter but Hannibal is not a man to linger. He controls his body, not the other way around.

But Will... Will is not so fortunate. Hannibal watches the flicker of incredulity in Will's eyes and when Will responds to the inquiry, Hannibal ducks his head in both acknowledgement and an unspoken near-apology. The mention of the saw makes Hannibal's eyes track unbidden to the gauze at Will's temple and not for the first time, Hannibal feels a small frisson of unease. He'd been quite decided at that moment. Now the thought is so alien to him that it crosses over into territory that makes him nauseous. When he looks at Will there is real contrition behind his eyes, though it is muted under the stoic mask he wears.

"Of course. It's only natural to wonder. But... no, Will. My forgiveness will not take that form again. Will yours?" Hannibal adds, managing to still look like himself as he arches an eyebrow. His tousled hair and visible exhaustion don't matter. Hannibal's presence is all in attitude and posture. "Will I need to concern myself with concealed weapons? That _was_ my knife, was it not? Fitting."

* * *

Of course something like cannibalizing his brain (and who knows what else) would equate to forgiveness for Hannibal. Most of their interactions were of a peculiar nature. Nothing from the get-go had been normal. He'd interested Hannibal, caught his eye, and Hannibal - all the while acting like a friend and support system - let him grow sicker and sicker. Hannibal let him believe he was simply mentally ill (if only he knew). Needless to say, surviving the beginning of their friendship had been a trial in and of itself. Will may have been acquitted of being the Copycat Killer, but he hasn’t been an innocent bystander in their game - he's not a sacrificial lamb. He fooled the wolf himself, but paid dearly for his deception. Everything that followed him after stumbling into Hannibal's home wet from rain and trembling with trepidation, has only pulled the noose tighter. (He dreams about Hannibal choking him with the leather gloves far too often.)

Try as Hannibal might, Will can sense physical discomfort, that Hannibal is in pain too. Good. Will is curious, but he’s not searching for signs of weakness to exploit.

"You left it with me. I was looking to return it," Will says and when he goes to shrug, he winces and has to abort the gesture. Damn Chiyoh. However, he has no plans on mentioning or returning the jacket or gloves (assuming they are still tucked in his knapsack).

"Unlike you, my plan - if we could call it that - wasn't to fatally injure you." The truth is now out. Doubting that Hannibal wouldn't believe him, Will hadn't attempted to explain his actions after the incident.

* * *

It is likely not wise to feel so relieved that Will had been intending to stab him, but Will's aborted shrug is the first proof Hannibal has experienced that Will Graham is beginning to become himself again. As he looks at him now, wan, exhausted, with thick gauze over multiple injuries and butterfly-tape over the smaller ones, his shoulder tightly bandaged and skin pale, Will looks close enough to death that Hannibal would have worried were it not for the flicker of very real intelligence and fire behind his eyes. He is not the broken, desperate creature he had been in the catacombs. Even when the shot had rung out and Will had stumbled back into his chest, shocked and staggering with pain, even when Hannibal had witnessed the knife drop to the ground, he'd found himself viciously pleased despite his disappointment. Will's forgiveness had been dark, bloodied, and Hannibal... had sought to return it in kind? He frowns as he regards Will now. He's weak but he's not dying, and there is purpose behind his eyes. Anger.

Therefore Hannibal takes the barbed comment without batting an eye. Will is owed his anger. Even now when Hannibal considers it, he cannot tell _why_ he had made his decision. To draw Jack in, yes, but the rest of his reasoning is eclipsed by confusion. Impulse, then. That he'd come so close on impulse and desperation to killing this man is unsettling. Even so, hearing that Will _hadn't_ been attempting to kill him is enough to make Hannibal look at him. His expression is weary but as stoic as it can be. He considers Will's answer.

"Carving your own rictus, Will?" Hannibal asks quietly. He'd seen the scar upon undressing Will, but he'd not been so bold as to touch or let his eyes linger. One day if Will wishes it, he will show Hannibal on his own. "Would you have left me to hold myself together? To complete the act of reciprocity?"

* * *

It had been an impulse to take out the harpy knife while walking in tandem with Hannibal. Will had no real plan in place other than to lash out and repay Hannibal in some way. How many nights had his hand wrapped around that gifted knife and wondered what he could do with it... Will's no stranger to violent imaginings, he's looked and recreated enough crimes to have quite the repertoire of grisly scenarios to think on. He's deliberated on cutting Hannibal's wrists parallel to the scars Matthew Brown left behind. He's dreamed about Hannibal's own stomach having a matching expression.

So when Hannibal brings up the idea of Will perhaps wanting to give him a rictus, Will gives him a wry smile. They really are conjoined, aren't they? His left hand picks at the comforter, pinching at it for no reason other than to fidget and creating little peaks. When Hannibal's second question comes - if he would have left Hannibal to 'hold himself together' - Will's hand stops its playing and he glances at the seated man.

"No, I don't think so," Will begins slowly. "I think I'd want to feel you on the inside." He wiggles the fingers of his left hand for emphasis. Yeah, he can see them coated in Hannibal's blood and trying to tear into the gaping slash. He's seen Hannibal's hands in a man's chest cavity...

* * *

The wry smile is answer enough. _Yes_. Will remains silent, but the knowledge that Will had once again been attempting to even the score does nothing but silently make Hannibal relax. He has never been a man to wish for death outside of desperation and recklessness. He's only been brought to those levels twice. Once many years ago, and once very recently. He still carries the pain and the injuries, the deep swelling to his shoulder and numerous bruises all over his body that Chiyoh had seen but decided against voicing. However the idea of Will putting a hand to his shoulder in Florence and turning, leaning in... perhaps he would have touched Hannibal's face, made him go still. Would he have held him as he'd cut him, as Hannibal had? Would he have cut too deep accidentally? Hannibal is almost sad that they will never know.

His thoughts are brought back to the forefront when Will answers his other question. No, he wouldn't have left Hannibal there. The thought sparks a new, hazier image that sharpens into high resolution when Will continues. Immediately Hannibal's breath catches. He looks down at Will's left hand and for a moment Hannibal can almost feel the cold numbness of nerves and the hot gush of blood. He can picture Will prying the wound open and shoving his hand inside. Not to kill, apparently, but to feel.

"You always said you would use your hands," is all Hannibal can think to say. In that moment, he feels dizzy with imagined pain and righteousness. His pupils blow wider in a different kind of excitement and when he looks at Will, it's with a calculated awe. "I had not anticipated you doing so in such an intimate manner."

* * *

They had been close - Will had _let_ Hannibal get far too close, lowering his gun and Hannibal had embraced him before digging the knife into his belly. Hannibal, while shrouded in shadows, had held him again as gloved hands wrapped around Will's neck and squeezed to the point where he lost consciousness. Hannibal's hands hold a book now, he _looks_ relaxed, but Will knows he's alert (always alert - that Will got to witness him sleeping likely bothers Hannibal, for sleeping puts one into a position of vulnerability). Hannibal has stitched up his wounds, bandaged him, and dressed him. Hands of a surgeon, hands of a killer, hands of a musician. Hannibal may have saved lives, but he’s taken far more. He could have taken Will's life and yet here Will is, patched up and sharing that he'd like to explore Hannibal's insides.

His grotesque admission has Will observing a curious flicker of emotion: Hannibal's breath hitching and then his eyes widening in some sort of interest. No, they've never been normal. He almost wants to laugh at the thought that this might be their twisted version of flirting.

"Were you not intimate with me, in your own way?" Will suggests. He pushes the bed sheets down before his left hand comes to rest over his shirt where his scar is. "You held me close, cupped my face. Tender, like a lover..." He raises an eyebrow, daring Hannibal to refute the claim.

* * *

Will isn't wrong. Hannibal watches him in silence as he speaks and immediately Hannibal can see the moment again like new. It aches terribly to think back of how cold Will's cheek had been under his hand. How wet with rainwater. He can still see the shock from Abigail in Will's eyes, the desperate twist to his voice when he'd seen Hannibal behind him. Not for the first time, Hannibal wonders if Will had expected to be kissed. He'd looked at him with such open trust.

Fitting, in a sense, that that trust had heralded the worst breach of it. A knife sliding slick and hot into Will's abdomen as shocked hands had come to clutch at Hannibal's shoulders. Will had choked on agony and Hannibal had held him, a final imprint. The memory sends a fresh slide of remembered agony through him. He'd been hurt, had only wished to hurt Will in return. Clarity had not been Hannibal's strong point then, and he cannot claim that he has felt particularly clear since their Last Supper. Recklessness and impulse, anger and hurt, and a deep-set longing have been Hannibal's constant companions. As he looks at Will now, as Will speaks of intimacy and tenderness, Hannibal can only swallow.

He doesn't look away. Instead he takes the book in his hands, pauses, and then sets it on the side table, ignoring the flare of agony in his back.

"You have always pushed and tested my resolve. Pushed me to acting outside myself. Why should that have been any different?" Hannibal asks quietly as he looks at Will. "An act of great betrayal should be met with the intimacy it fostered. I would have done you a disservice by cutting you callously."

* * *

When Will thinks back to that night, he doesn't re-live the intimacy (not him fucking clutching at Hannibal, not their closeness nor the physical agony of the knife ripping into him). What he does remember is Hannibal letting him slide to the floor after it. He remembers Hannibal's bloody and severe face, his wet eyes. Will remembers Abigail gasping for breath as another father betrayed her. Blood rushed out of them, pooling and connecting them and abandonment settled into his every cell of his body, into his very DNA as Hannibal left the scene of the crime, leaving them like unwanted luggage.

_Unworthy_.

It hadn't mattered that Will called to warn Hannibal (an impulse, a desire to make some sort of amends) for Will had wound the thread around his own neck by playing both sides.

He may not be as unworthy as he feels now, for Hannibal has seen fit to to not leave him behind, but where does that leave them now? Will has no clue. Will wonders if a man like Hannibal can feel regret (Will is weighed down by regrets). His hand presses to his abdomen.

"You let me," Will asserts, glaring and shaking his head. "You let me get under your skin. Were you feeling complacent, a little desperate to shake things up? Because I never sought to push when we first met. You started that shit." He thinks of his manipulation of Chiyoh - how much has Hannibal rubbed off on him?

* * *

The accusation is not expected, but after a short period of reflection, Will's perspective is simple to assume. Hannibal looks down at the way Will's hand curls over his abdomen and Hannibal wonders idly if this is something Will is doing for his sake, given the memories that must be flooding him, or if this is something he has taken to doing. A nervous gesture, or a comforting one. Is Will protecting his wounds from Hannibal, or acknowledging them? Only time will tell.

Hannibal tilts his head so slightly that it's nearly impossible to see. His gaze tracks over Will, from the pale, worn skin and deep bags under his eyes all the way down to the hand pressed against his abdomen. Hannibal says nothing for a moment, for after all this time, he owes Will the benefit of true contemplation.

"Language, Will," Hannibal says quietly as he folds his hands over his lap. Like this it could almost be therapy again, were they not dressed so down. Hannibal lets his gaze drop to Will's abdomen.

"Perhaps you're right, in a sense. I have rarely been satisfied for long with complacency, and at the time you were simply interesting. So curious was I to push you, to see how far you would go, I left my own defenses down. You infected me as thoroughly as I infected you, and I doubt I will ever be able to bleed you out." Hannibal's gaze lands on his own cut wrists for only a moment, then he looks over at Will again, at the hand pressed over his abdomen. Hannibal wets his lips.

"May I see?"

* * *

The comment of 'language' has Will rolling his eyes. Normally he tries to keep the cursing for internal dialogue, but who does he have to behave for? He doesn't have to worry about misrepresenting the Bureau or Jack. He now only has himself to represent and maybe this Will Graham wants to swear aloud. He thinks he could probably get away with a lot of things. Hannibal abhors rudeness, but he's still alive despite everything. (It's a thought to test later, because he may not have pushed in the beginning, but he does now.)

He remains still under Hannibal's scrutiny. He's not going to shy away; he's no longer that man. Will watches Hannibal fold his hands on his lap - it's such a familiar sight that it brings an uncomfortable ache to Will. It also reminds him of therapy - of their former conversations. Will remembers feeling awed that Hannibal managed to be so at ease and nonjudgmental as he waded through the darkness. (He also remembers feeling guilty for thinking that he pulled Hannibal into his life. Laughable...)

' _... and at the time you were simply interesting'_ ... Will can't help but wonder what happens when he's no longer interesting enough. Is that when he gets left behind? Children discard their boring toys, lovers find new partners, men lease new cars... Maybe he's the only one with the string wrapped so tightly around him. (Maybe it's a leash actually.) He notices Hannibal eye his own marred wrists. And then those eyes are back at him.

' _May I see?'_

"Sure, why not? It's your handiwork," Will answers plainly. He decides to slip out of bed. He'll show Hannibal and then get a drink of water. He's about done with socializing. He moves gingerly, careful of wobbly legs that have been out of commission for some time (he wonders just how long). When he's standing, his left hand lifts the hem of the shirt and pulls it up. He exposes his smile to Hannibal. He's breathing a little a quicker and maybe he's still _that man_ because Will has to look away.

* * *

Given all that has transpired between them, Hannibal's request is reckless. Will is grievously injured and he needs his rest almost as much as Hannibal does. Yet despite this, when Hannibal's request is voiced, Will merely looks at him, seems to consider something (a complicated mix of emotions flickers behind Will's eyes) and then he answers flatly. Hannibal feels a shiver slide down his spine that leaves a sweet agony in its wake, though he does nothing but half-wince. He ducks his head to mask it, a parody of a nod, and he watches as Will stands before him.

He's seen the scar before, many times, but never of Will's own volition. Like this, Hannibal is silent and still. He hardly blinks as Will situates himself in front of him, and as the hem of Will's undershirt is pulled up, Hannibal allows himself to truly look for the first time. It is deep and gnarled, the flesh white but tight and tense. It's the way a scar looks when it's not been properly maintained and Hannibal immediately finds himself wondering if Will had left it on purpose. Had his intention been to make the mark linger? Hannibal wears many marks made by this man - most of them mental and emotional - perhaps this is Will's concession.

It's gruesome. It's also beautiful. Hannibal wets his lips. "A stark reminder of how strong a man you are," he says quietly, raking his gaze over Will's abdomen like a physical touch. "You survived this. Survived me." Hannibal remembers the catacombs, remembers Will dropping to his knees and nuzzling close. He remembers wondering if movement like this still pains Will. He's still curious now.

"Does it hurt?" Hannibal asks, and he begins to extend a hand before catching himself. For a moment he wars with the impulse, then his hand drops back down into his lap.

* * *

Courtesy of Freddie Lounds, many people have glimpsed his prolific scar - at least through the captured photographs splashed on her webpage under salacious headlines. Hannibal has surely seen it in person while changing his clothing and dealing with his wounds. But _willingly_ baring it for Hannibal is entirely different. Will hadn't even considered saying no. (How could he? A part of him aches for attention.)

He feels like he is presenting himself for inspection. His hand, thankfully, doesn't shake as he holds up his shirt and feels Hannibal's eyes sweep over the marred skin. Will is fully aware that it hasn't exactly healed well - he hadn't kept up his aftercare routine. At the time, it hardly seemed like it was worth the effort to try and minimize the scarring. The scar was there, why did he care if it was ugly or not? He was marked. Nothing would change that. (Raised edges call to him at night. Sometimes he resists, other times his hand slips under his shirt and he strokes. He imagines a zipper, he imagines pulling it--)

When Hannibal speaks, Will wonders if it was strength at all. Yes, he had survived the injury and survived Hannibal Lecter. Could he truly claim victory in such a thing as Hannibal had been the one to ensure the wound was nonfatal? Will supposes he could have given up afterward, with his head down and tail between his legs, he could have moved away and attempted to build a new life of some sort... But after he was released from the hospital, he saw the world differently and desperation settled into his bones like a cancer.

"It's--" Will starts, but movement catches his eye. Hannibal had reached to _touch_ but stopped himself. The realization bothers him more than he'd like. "It's sensitive in places, dead in others. A bit tight and uncomfortable, but it's fine." Underneath the scar, inside, his nerves feel tightly coiled.

"You... You can touch it." He sounds breathless.

* * *

Will's hand is steady as he shows Hannibal his punishment. Hannibal only wishes he could say the same thing about his own hand as a fine tremor slides through it before he holds himself in check. Gnarled, tight, likely painful if touched too hard... the scar is a beacon for everything Hannibal had been punishing Will for. A slash in anger, a jagged cut lacking all his surgical skill save for one condition. He hadn't wanted to kill. In a sense, despite the fire of rage and hurt fueling such a vulnerable, _impulsive_ response, Hannibal had still been trying to protect Will.

Abigail dead, Jack (sadly not) dead, Alana crippled, and Will left unharmed? The full weight of the FBI would have descended upon him as an accomplice. Hannibal could have killed him. Hannibal could have ruined him.

In some ways he wonders if he already has. There's a vulnerability behind Will's eyes as he answers Hannibal's question, but it isn't until he notices the abortive move for his abdomen that something almost petulant, almost desperate crosses his eyes. Will gives Hannibal permission he hadn't asked for, and the world outside of the room disappears. Hannibal is quiet for a few seconds too long, merely looking at the scar, warring with himself. There are many reasons to resist but none he particularly cares to consider. So while he does swallow and hesitate, it's laughable to think he'd ever had a choice.

Hannibal reaches out and finds it appropriate that his back radiates agony down his arm. A repentance Will doesn't know about. Fitting, in a sense. Hannibal's fingers are whisper-soft as they touch the tight line of skin, the jagged edges where stitches were likely torn and the tight scar tissue caused by an injury improperly cared for. For a scar, it's hardly aesthetically pleasing, and yet Hannibal cannot help the rapt awe in his eyes as he traces his thumb over one of the corners of Will's intimate grin. 

"I assume you didn't follow your surgeon's instructions. It will tug unpleasantly when you stretch. Do you enjoy the reminder, Will?"

* * *

Scars aren't new to Will. He has a scar from the knife wound he sustained early in his career. He has a scar from when Jack intervened and 'saved' Hannibal from him. _This_ scar is from Hannibal exacting judgment on him. In time the wound from Chiyoh will form a scar. Another will be from Hannibal’s latest attempt to get inside his head, and lastly the mark from Cordell's scalpel will inevitably also scar. _However, this_ scar is the most significant, the only one that he feels drawn to touch, yet he hadn't cared for it after. He hadn't cared for himself, really. That self-preservation instinct... what was it about Hannibal that made him constantly ignore it?

Will had been spared and yet he would rather Abigail be alive in his stead. His betrayal had sentenced her to death, for Hannibal's wrath had been sweeping - no one had remained unpunished from that night. Perhaps she wasn't innocent, but she had done what she needed to in order to survive. He understands that now. But what if _he had_ agreed to slip away after that supper... Hannibal had claimed to not need a sacrifice (apparently it was Will that had needed one in the end).

Hannibal is in no rush to touch him. This moment is sacred - like the catacombs had been - but there are no dead listening now. It's just Hannibal reaching out and touching him this time, but Will _had_ to ask. Head tilted down, Will's eyes are wide as Hannibal's fingers make contact - the touch is barely there, but he has visual proof. He adjusts his hand to better _see_. (He _needs_ to see this.) Will is breathing a little quicker, chest rising and falling faster, and he feels a horrible slide of _something_ in his abdomen, as if Hannibal's gentle touch is rousing a sleeping monster.

' _Do you enjoy the reminder?'_

Will licks his lips. His mouth feels dry, his lips parched and cracking. "Yes. I carry you around with me always," Will murmurs. Pazzi had been wrong - Will carries around the living for Abigail isn't truly gone. He takes a chance and tries to catch Hannibal's eye.

* * *

That _something_ is very clear to Hannibal but right now it's not important. He registers the increase of Will's scent in a distant way, his attention solely drawn down to the uneven flesh under his fingers. Hannibal's touch is so gentle it's hardly present, his fingers sliding over one edge of the scar and slowly tracing it over to the other. Then he sets his jaw and traces it back. As he does so, he can almost feel the pull of Will's muscles, the way he'd tightened around the knife in agony as Hannibal had torn him open with it. He moves his fingers slowly, tracing the wild line, and when Hannibal finally stops and glances up at Will, he finally notes the rest.

Will smells of a budding sweetness, thicker and musky in the way sex often is. His breathing is quick under Hannibal's fingers, and when Hannibal looks as high as his lips, he watches as Will licks them. His voice is unsteady when he speaks and somehow that makes the moment even more charged. When Will steels himself and meets his eyes, Hannibal wonders idly just what he's going to do. Not even he knows the plan now.

So it comes as a shock even to him when his impulse flares. He leans in, his eyes squinting against the pull at his back, but for a moment he feels almost disassociated, like he's merely watching himself move. Nothing registers for a long moment, and then his lips touch the widest angle of the scar and the rest of the moment rushes back in. Will's scent, his heat, his presence. Hannibal breathes him in and feels the wildly uneven flesh under his lips and he wonders absently if Will has a knife. Tenderness and betrayal go hand in hand for them. Yet this is not Hannibal maintaining distance, and this is not Hannibal saying goodbye.

This is acknowledgement. Were he remorseful, it could be seen as an apology. Instead Hannibal merely holds Will's gaze as he kisses the scar and then he allows his eyes to slide shut. He draws back hardly an inch just to breathe, slower and deeper in this moment of transparency. They both know the other now.

"If I brought you a blade, would you use it? Is violence required for your company?"

* * *

This moment, although sharp in its significance, is so unlike their meetup beneath the chapel. The room, bathed in warm natural light, prevents them from being obscured to one another. They are free of shadows and coats, Will dressed in loose fitting clothing and Hannibal dressed much more simply in comparison to what he used to strut around in. Their eyes see clearly. They have both been beaten down but not stayed down. It _is_ another reunion, but not one of his own making this time. Hannibal _had_ chosen to save him, but Will isn't sure of his worth nor how long he will last (he believes the two to be connected).

A man like Hannibal who can slay his own surrogate daughter... What hope does Will have? He's not on the menu for the immediate future, but plans do often change.

Whether his words cause Hannibal to move, to change things up, Will knows not, but Hannibal leans in - his head coming closer. It feels like a collision when Hannibal's mouth connects to his smile. Will exhales loudly through his nostrils as his hand grips his shirt tighter. A fine tremor works it's way through his body, his abdomen quivering in this exchange. He hears and _feels_ Hannibal breathe him in. Their eyes remain locked ( _see?_ Yeah, he's seeing too much). He sees Hannibal give the scar a kiss and he can't mistake the spike of arousal it brings. Their first… kiss? It doesn't last. Hannibal closes his eyes and breaks away.

"Violence isn't _required_... But Chiyoh thinks it's all I understand," Will murmurs thoughtfully. "But why not? Although perhaps not in the way you imagine... I should like your hand to guide mine and perhaps we add to each other's scars at some point. I'd like to take an inventory and make sure my count is the highest." It's petty, but why have shame? He's a little hard, pyjama pants tenting and right in front of Hannibal's face.

* * *

There's no mistaking the extent of Will's reactions. His body is like an instrument, high-strung like the finest of strings, each muscle quivering its own note as Hannibal draws away. Will is tense, his knuckles white on his shirt and there's no mistaking the telltale rise in his pants. Hannibal notices it in silence, glancing once in the direction but ensuring it could be seen as him merely looking at Will's scar. This is... surprising, but perhaps not so surprising after all. This isn't the direction Hannibal had ever assumed their interactions would take. Intimacy has many forms and while his sentiment for this creature is inconvenient to him, he had never assumed it would be anything beyond a meeting of minds. Will might tolerate his touch. They would live together with Abigail and Hannibal would instruct him, would help him peel back his layers and they would become a visceral force to be reckoned with over time.

That Will is slightly hard in his pants is not something Hannibal had expected. He looks in silence, listens to Will's words, and he wonders if this is merely a response. With his injuries, Will clearly hasn't been touched for some time. Perhaps touching himself had been painful, and he had indicated the scar was sensitive. Perhaps it is simply something to ignore. Hannibal tries, though the thicker scent on the air is difficult to avoid, particularly with how close Will stands.

But perhaps more damning is what Will says. Hannibal doesn't wish for Will to _need_ violence to be in his presence, but perhaps this is now their lot. Has it ever been any different? Hannibal had sat back and watched Will suffer, Will had sent Matthew Brown to kill him. He had sent Randall Tier in return and Will had eventually set up this betrayal. On and on they spiral, a whirlwind of blood and blades. That Will wishes to add to his scars shouldn't make him shiver, but it does. It speaks of possession. Hannibal swallows, considers, and then looks back up at him openly.

"Do you consider scars given by others to belong to you if they were obtained in your name?" Hannibal asks quietly, and his hand lifts to one of Will's, carefully prying it from his shirt. He presses his thumb into the fine bones of his wrist and then carefully guides his hand back, closer to Hannibal's shoulders.

"If your answer is yes, your count is already highest. And if you wish to cause me pain, you need only touch my back."

It seems like the least Hannibal can offer right now.

* * *

He remembers Alana describing Hannibal's 'Freddie' tribute as a courtship, a benefactor building up the fledgling killer... He'd been knocked down so low in the end. It hadn't even taken much to topple Will over, had it? Playing in any capacity was a risk one took. Will supposes that it's only fair. He should have known better, but what's done is done.The teacup _is_ shattered and Hannibal will not be reversing time. No miracles, not again and not for him. All they have is each other. And Chiyoh apparently, Hannibal's faithful guard dog.

Perhaps they both are broken things, fragmented and splintered, jagged and all sharp edges. For Will, tenderness has given way to pain for both Chiyoh and Hannibal had fooled him. But Will's already in pain now. It's all a confusing mess and a goddamn half-erection isn't helping matters either. He doubts very much that Hannibal will mention it. The matter of their words - violence and scars - is far more pressing. Before getting to his knees, Will had _thought_ Hannibal held some sexual desire for him, or at least found his submission appealing, but he hadn't received any verifiable proof of such a thing. It hardly seems appropriate now to go all out and ask.

Will lets Hannibal take his hand, his shirt falling down in the process and now the scar is covered and hidden from Hannibal's previously interested eyes. He feels the press of Hannibal's thumb and Will wants to push into it, but he doesn't. His hand is placed on Hannibal's shoulder and his fingertips unconsciously rub at the knit material of the sweater. It's obvious there's some wound of some kind on Hannibal's back and while Will is curious, he's not going to go searching for it. He doesn't feel like playing wound "show and tell" anymore.

"I've already caused you pain," Will says quietly. The wounds they _can't_ see have cut far deeper. He looks over to the closed door and wonders if he's simply allowed to leave his room when he wishes to.

“We both could probably use a break. Rest up and recuperate. Maybe that's all we're good for. Hurting each other." It's a daunting thought. (Maybe the red thread is actually razor wire.)

* * *

There are thoughts milling about in Hannibal's mind of injuries and blades. He'd offered Will the capacity to hurt him in return but when given the method, Will's eyes linger only for a moment and then something heavy slides into his expression. Hannibal feels the weight and warmth of Will's hand on his shoulder and it would be so easy for Will to injure him further. To slide his hand back and grip... familiar with pain as Hannibal is, he believes it might be bad enough for him to lose his control, if just for a moment. Will could do so much, yet chooses not to. Instead his voice is heavy and the one olive branch Hannibal had been able to ascertain is suddenly broken and removed.

He eyes Will's hand in silence, considering where to go from here. He'd been bold in kissing Will's scar, had done more than he'd anticipated, and there is a part of him that wishes to push still, to examine this curious creature who can endure so much and still seek him out. Or... perhaps...

A thought occurs. Will had sought him out when it had been only the abdominal scar. Will has several more now, more injuries, more mental scars. Hannibal draws back to look up at him, as while Will's body reacts physically, it hardly means anything. Will's been through much these past few weeks. These past few months. Perhaps he is right. Hannibal feels no guilt but he cannot completely deny that Will has a point. Hannibal is in no state to deflect attacks and Will has been grievously injured as well. Time to rest and recover, to collect... perhaps that is appropriate.

He draws in a deep breath of Will's unique scent, of blood and antiseptic and arousal and something earthen and heavy that is solely Will Graham, and then he swallows. Hannibal nods slowly, only once. It's acknowledgement. He hides his disappointment, gathers himself together again, and then follows Will's gaze to the closed door as he reaches up and carefully removes Will's hand.

Hannibal stands, though he does so slowly. His expression is once again impassive for all the fatigue held carefully behind his eyes. It has been a long few months for both of them, and a long few days on top of that. That Will needs time to recover following his trauma isn't a surprise.

"Of course," Hannibal says tiredly. "At this point, we both need rest."

Gesturing mildly to the door across the room, Hannibal inclines his head toward it. "There is a bathroom connected to this room that you can use. If you require assistance, Chiyoh will be back shortly. My room is across the hall. There is a study with books at the end of the hall, and a sitting room and kitchen downstairs. You have free rein of the house if you so wish, but I would recommend you focus your efforts on recovery."

* * *

While they may bear wounds that are associated with each other, it's not the same as directly inflicting them. Will would feel less pissed off if Hannibal had been the one to shoot him, for example. Does he want to hurt Hannibal? Yes. Does he want Hannibal to hurt him? Yes. If either of those were happening, it would mean that they're _together_ and Hannibal is giving him the time of day. Hannibal held him tenderly before ripping into his stomach. Hannibal had nearly kissed him before choking him. He'd been embraced while Hannibal tended to the bullet hole and before the introduction to the saw. Maybe violence is the doorway to tenderness... He may understand violence, but it's not exactly how Will fucking _prefers_ it to be. They both deserve a break, deserve a little softness from everything they've put their bodies through. They're not young men after all, and Will’s unclear as to the extent of Hannibal's injuries.

But instead of talking about longing and loneliness, instead of confessing his fears and concerns, they've been talking about violence and blades. About grins and reciprocity. Fuck. And then his hand is removed, Hannibal standing carefully and more words are said. They're practical words on the layout of the house, but they're not words that Will wants to hear. This moment is currently coming to an end and yeah, there's a part of Will that wants to just get out of this sunny room and familiarize himself with his new environment.

"I want you," Will states suddenly. He looks at Hannibal's cut up face - he knows it mirrors his own. "In every fucking possible way I can have you and be yours in return. That's what I want... I-I just thought you should know." He loses steam by the end of his claim. Yes, the noose is tight and Hannibal could let him drop at any time, but with the future so uncertain, Will doesn't want to risk it not being known.

* * *

There is safety in practicality, especially when foundation is unstable. The baseline of Maslow's hierarchy of needs is necessary right now. Food, water, shelter, and rest are all staples in physiological and psychological recovery and while there is so much left to be said between them, it is not a conversation to have when desperate. Much like a man given food after being starved for weeks, to indulge right now would only lead to upset and sickness and danger. A slow reintroduction to the idea of having Will in his life again - and for Will, to have Hannibal in his life - is safest. It feels agonizing in this moment but there's nothing that can be done. Hannibal merely repeats to himself that security and safety come next, and _then_ friendships and intimate relationships.

This is not a pyramid he intends to build upon shifting sands, so to speak. He has been reckless with Will in the past, had been callous with his life and his mental state, had used and played with him like a cat tormenting a mouse, up until the point the mouse had shown itself to be a rat and had lashed out at him and bitten back.

They need time. Every interaction in Europe had ended in violence. In a way Hannibal still craves it, to hold Will close until he slumps as he had on the floors to the catacombs, to see him struggle so beautifully when pushed to his limit, but Hannibal can no longer _risk_ indulgence. He's injured. Will is injured. Will also isn't the only one of them concerned with destroying this tentative peace.

Hannibal is already turning, already in the process of reaching for the door when Will's sudden comment draws him up short. He freezes. There's no other description for it, and the way he looks back at Will makes it very obvious that Will has caught him off guard. Hannibal's expression is open for a flicker of a second before he manages to school it back into something more neutral. Will can't _possibly_ be implying... but if not that, what else could he mean?

He considers merely leaving the comment, considers circling around it and touching it later when he's certain it is a string and not a serpent, but with the future so uncertain and their foundation being under developed, Hannibal cannot afford doubt. Not in this. He turns back to Will silently and though it goes against his instincts to ask so directly, he cannot help it.

"Could you be more specific, Will? I am not intending to be cruel. I merely do not wish to misinterpret your intent."

* * *

Hannibal is concerned with the practical, on being sensible and it all makes _sense_ of course. Now isn't the time to be addressing such matters. This is a new undertaking on both their parts. This is the fragile and tense period after two warring nations have called a cease fire. Will knows better than to be opening up like this, to be exposing himself. Maybe he's setting himself up for the fall, for a slow death by strangulation because Will doesn't think Hannibal is going to be merciful. (Were they ever towards each other?) Will's certain no person has been able to hurt and betray them like each other has. Maybe it was a gift.

When Will witnesses the shock appear on Hannibal's face, there's a sick prickle of satisfaction that _wants_ to be acknowledged, that wants to grow and mutate into something horrible. Will doesn't allow it, doesn't want it to. He hadn't done this to surprise Hannibal, he hadn't chosen to be honest to catch him off guard and get one step ahead - or had he unintentionally? Will pushes the thought down, shoves it to the floor of his mind and kicks it away. Maybe he'll deal with it later, maybe he'll repress it until something similar pops up and then he'll know that it _is_ important after all.

Hannibal isn't merciful, for Hannibal, under the guise of not wanting to misinterpret anything (heaven forbid!) asks him to be more specific. Oh, of course he would. Why shouldn't Will have to struggle more? Will looks away, feeling a sense of heavy dread set in. The space between them might as well be a canyon and he might as well attempt the jump.

"I said: Every. Fucking. Way. Possible," Will grits out. Apparently getting angry is what's happening. Whatever. It will help him get through this. "You wanna fuck me? Sure. You want to take it up the ass, I'm game. You want me crawl on my knees and beg? I'll do it. You want romance? Murder? You want to eat people? Let's eat people. Let's do it all. I want it all." He's only gotten harder from his admission and Will's left hand clenches at his side as he awaits possible judgment.

* * *

There's a fire burning quietly behind Will's eyes. In the catacombs it had been a spark, in Florence, it had risen to a small flame, but now Hannibal can see something stoke it behind Will's eyes. He wonders what the kindling is. Is it frustration? Denial? Recklessness? Any one of those things could be the catalyst to the fire growing in size behind Will's eyes. Hannibal watches it quietly, hardly daring to move from his position lest the spell shatter and Will recoil. Lest _he_ retreat before doing something foolish.

Hannibal has not forgotten the Professor. He's not forgotten Dimmond or Fell or any of the others to fall due to his impulsiveness over the past few months. Will had almost been on that list. Hannibal is concerned about acting without thinking. So in this he wishes to be smart. He wishes to ask for clarification before jumping to the assumptions it _sounds_ like Will is implying. But his request has sparked something hot and Hannibal is curious as he watches Will look away, a weight behind his eyes that only stokes the fire higher. Hannibal's fascination is difficult to contain.

That his reaction is controlled is a miracle, but not even Hannibal can hide the way his pupils blow wide at the very _idea_ of sexual intimacy between them. He doesn't freeze but it's a very near thing, his breath catching, holding, and then releasing only when he reminds himself that he needs to breathe. That Will is saying any of this is a shock. That Hannibal is given a glimpse into a reckless future that he _wants_ is perhaps more of a shock. He's never been a man obsessed with his body's desire for sex. When necessary, he's indulged. When he wished for it, he's found someone. He isn't a man to deny himself but he's never _wanted_ like this before. The severity of it is briefly unsettling.

Even worse, however, is the rest of what Will says. Romance, murder, cuisine... Hannibal shivers like Will has just whispered something into his ear and the flare of pain from his brand is somehow fitting. Pain and pleasure. Violence and tenderness. Hannibal and Will. Always a dichotomy. Hannibal doesn't fail to miss that this is not Will's desperation talking. This is anger. There's _fire_ there. There's _Will Graham_ in these words, unlike his desperation in the catacombs.

Hannibal's next breath is slower and he's clearly seeking his own control. He's not failed to notice the increase of Will's arousal and the temptation is stifling.

"I see," Hannibal says carefully, choosing his words mindfully. "This... is not a conversation we should be having right now. But as you have already initiated, and while you phrased it... colorfully," Hannibal pauses pointedly, then wets his lips. He nods, slowly and purposefully. "Yes. Our desires are apparently the same. Is this recent, Will?"

* * *

As the words leave his mouth, Will is effectively shedding his former self. Dead skin cells flake off and the ones that don't Will rips them off with his own hands. They sail to the floor like discarded trash and pile up at his feet. He has no need for _that_ man. For all that indecision and desperation, the push and pull between the light and the dark, of thinking and believing he couldn't have both. He is going to have it _all_. He's not identical to Hannibal, they're not carbon copies of each other. In this new life of theirs, compromises will have to be made, there will need to be a blending of light and dark. It's likely not in Hannibal's nature to compromise. Will knows they're both stubborn and they've been alone far too long. This is a massive undertaking that neither of them are prepared for. Still, it's what they want, for he is _alive_.

He's brought up sex. Will has relatively no experience with men, just a drunk kiss with his roommate back in college, but Hannibal overwrites his previous orientation. But Will is no stranger to lust, to longing, and he's experienced both with regards to Hannibal. A desire to be known in every intimate way possible, to feel skin and heat. He wants to press his fingers, his tongue, his dick into any of Hannibal's openings. Tasting. Claiming. Getting _inside._ (And he wants Hannibal to do the same to him.)

On the topic of romance, Will thinks Hannibal has been subtly courting him for years now. Wine, candle lit dinners... Now it’s simply out in the open. He's amenable to the idea of them taking life together, but Will knows he can't operate under Hannibal's former criteria. He couldn't murder simply on a whim, _bad_ corrupt people ought to die, not merely the rude. Should he have stronger feelings and judgments toward cannibalism? Hmm, perhaps it's bleak, but why waste a corpse? Will doesn't want to be involved in the dismemberment. He's not interested in removing organs to feast on later, but if it made Hannibal happy, why not? After all, everything _had_ been so damn tasty.

Thread pulled, Will glances back to Hannibal. Hannibal is careful with his words, thoughtful in the construction of his own admission. Hannibal is guarded and Will wants to destroy it, to take a wrecking ball to the defenses and crumble them. Let the rubble of Hannibal's security join Will's discarded skin along the floor. The desire to shake Hannibal only intensifies once Hannibal admits that Will is not alone in this, but there's still a chasm between them.

"Recent? Some revelations are, some aren't. I don't have an exact timeline, but things became more clear to me once you left me... again."

* * *

Hannibal is not privy to Will's thoughts. Though there have been many times he's wished he could peel Will's mind apart and study its inner workings, there's no way to know what Will is thinking for sure. Hannibal can infer based on expression and body language and tone, but human limitations still apply. He may be better at reading people than most, but Will Graham has already fooled him thrice. He's not forgotten that, nor will he.

When it comes down to it, there is no deception here. Will wants everything and Hannibal wishes the same. Yet the timing on this admission is reckless in itself. To attempt to find viable compromises when Will is likely suffering from severe trauma is irresponsible. To even _think_ about sex falls under similar categories given their injuries, and Hannibal highly doubts that Will is in a place where he would accept romance the way Hannibal had once envisioned it. Gone are the days of quiet evenings and meals Hannibal had painstakingly prepared. They are both too injured and they both need to re-learn the other before anything else can transpire. Logically this is the case, but Hannibal already knows that where Will Graham is concerned, recklessness and impulse are lovers.

Perhaps one day they will settle, when their injuries and betrayals have long-since healed and smoothed over. The only catalyst is _mutual_ survival.

There's a tension thrumming between them that Hannibal can feel. He's no longer weary and no longer feels heavy. His injuries are a mere whisper along his senses, for once again his entire focus is Will. The catacombs are mentioned again and Hannibal feels the memory like a twist to his stomach. Right now they need a place to start short of grand gestures and guilty admissions. Considering his rationale behind what he'd done in the catacombs, this seems fitting.

"It gave me no pleasure to leave you," Hannibal says quietly as he looks at Will. They're both standing, should probably both rest and yet neither of them return to their respective places. Hannibal merely looks at Will with the barest flicker of regret present.

"I would have taken you with me in an instant had you been yourself. I admit... I still considered it. But if I see you desperate, it will not be out of a fear so great you compromise yourself, Will."

Hannibal takes a simple moment and then he reaches out. His hand is slow-moving and he makes it clear that Will is welcome to move away at any time. Even so, Hannibal reaches out and his fingers just barely brush against the side of Will's face. He's mindful of his injuries despite his boldness and in less than a few seconds, he's cradling Will's face as he had in his kitchen so many months ago. Save there are no hidden knives this time.

"There is much we need to discuss, but not in this moment. I do not wish pent up desires and emotions to immolate us both in the process, though you would undoubtedly make a _stunningly_ reckless explosion."

* * *

He aches. He's thirsty. He's uncomfortable in this new skin, not quite adjusted to the fit. Will's angry, hopeful and lost, and feels like Hannibal is the answer... But maybe Hannibal has no answers for him. Maybe there's no simple truth that would help him make sense of this goddamn tangled mess they're in. There's no cure, no magical solution. But why would there be? Nothing for them has ever been simple or easy. Hannibal wouldn't care for simple or easy anyway.

Will is certain Hannibal is a sadist, but he's glad that leaving him in the catacombs hadn't been a choice Hannibal delighted in. The reasoning - while Will can understand - nonetheless sparks anger. They were already _both_ compromised, weren't they? Isn't that what they brought out in each other? But Hannibal hadn't liked seeing Will's particular _brand_ of being compromised (desperate and afraid).

Hannibal reaches out - perhaps the chasm isn't so wide - and contact is made. The touch is light, fingertips grazing along the uninjured side of his face and then Hannibal's hand is cupping his face. It's like the kitchen again, but Will's fairly confident he won't be getting gutted this time. Hannibal's hand is dry and warm and so _human_. Will has the vicious urge to break his fingers and hear the bones snap, just to prove who's the compromised one.

He doesn't.

"Whatever you say, boss." He turns his face into Hannibal's hand and kisses the palm before pulling away and leaving the room. To burn up in Hannibal... Will can't think of a better way to go.

* * *

There is a great danger present in this, in _knowing_. In telling Hannibal, Will has essentially chained him. Were the moment not so volatile and were they not so injured and half-present within themselves, Hannibal would have been grudgingly proud of the art of Will's manipulation. Sometimes the simplest manipulation is a well-timed truth. As his fingers touch Will's face, as his palm registers the prickle of Will's stubble and the heat of his skin, Hannibal fights against a very real urge to do something reckless. His gaze drops for only a moment to Will's lips but the impulse is there. He remembers considering it the moment before he'd grabbed the knife. He remembers the temptation and then the gravity of his choice, remembers how viciously he'd protected his own freedom.

Then life without Will Graham had happened and Hannibal had spent the entirety compromising that same freedom. He wonders idly if Will can feel the spider's silk vibrating under his hands, wonders just how long it will be before he realizes he has Hannibal caught in his web. Perhaps in the end they _will_ immolate each other despite their best efforts.

Will's lips catch Hannibal's palm then and the touch is like a well-stoked flame. Hannibal's breath catches subtly and he merely watches as Will draws away. Hannibal is left in the room, looking at his hand, able to feel the ghost of Will's lips on his skin, and after Will has already stepped out of the room, Hannibal merely curls that hand into a fist as if to protect the sensation. They are adrift at sea, the both of them, two monsters - one old, one new - attempting to touch without clawing, to kiss without consuming. Is it a hopeless endeavor? Likely, yes. Yet Will has ensured it is one Hannibal will attempt. Like the good fisherman he is, he's used the only lure Hannibal could possibly care about: Will himself.

Hannibal's smile is mirthless on his lips and doesn't reach his eyes. He clenches his fist tighter, as if to imprint the kiss into his skin like a brand, and then he turns and silently leaves Will's room. There will be time to converse again later.


	3. Of foxes and wolves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When she judges his pelt as lesser, Will's lips twitch. She may not like the new skin he's grown into, but he likes his scales just fine. He looks her over blatantly, his eyes roaming over her tightly compact body. Chiyoh does remind him of Hannibal - proud and resolute at times - perhaps that's why he relaxed in her company on the train (and subsequently let himself be pushed off like an idiot).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And introducing Chiyoh! Chiyoh is love... ♥
> 
> Will is written by merrythoughts ([tumblr](http://merrythought.tumblr.com))  
> Hannibal/Chiyoh written by Dapperscript/reallymisscoffee ([tumblr](http://reallymisscoffee.tumblr.com/))

Will explores the house that they've ended up at. The granite floor is cool underneath his bare feet. It's an open concept, furnished to Hannibal's exquisite tastes, of course. Will likes the large windows that show him the ocean. There's no other properties to be seen in the distance, just this house set upon the bluff. The seclusion is more than welcome - it's what he's used to - but the house is too quiet and is missing dogs. It's no home. He helps himself to a glass of water from the kitchen. He rummages through the cabinets, pantry and fridge. He finds nonperishable food items and a vast array of spices and cooking supplies. Chiyoh likely has been sent to fetch fresh ingredients.

He wonders if Abigail was brought here. If she had a room here. He wonders if they all would have come here (in that other world of theirs).

The house is clean and well maintained. Will thinks about Hannibal's words, about not wanting to create an explosion... He sees himself pouring a trail of gasoline through each and every room like breadcrumbs. He sees himself lighting a match and dropping it. (The trail was not meant for him to be followed and found, for he already _is.)_ He can imagine the swell of heat and beauty of this house burning down in a roar of fire - of standing next to Hannibal as smoke rises into the sky. He wants Hannibal to see him destroy--

Will stops that train of thought and forces himself outside to the patio. He looks out to the water but it has no answers for him.

*

Over the next few days the three of them have been mostly-quiet and respectful of each other. Three survivors, although Chiyoh is not in the “Recently Injured Club” with Hannibal and him. Probably for the best.

Chiyoh and Hannibal talk in Japanese far too often and Will has kept mostly to his room or out on the patio. Chiyoh has taken to watching him with narrowed eyes whenever he's around Hannibal and Hannibal has said nothing about it. Maybe the bastard is amused, Will doesn't know. Will refuses to be petty and ask him to call _her_ off. He's used to lingering eyes and judgmental stares. (And Will's not entirely sure he _is_ stable anyway.)

He lets Hannibal check on his wounds, change bandages - do whatever is needed. He takes whatever medication Hannibal gives him and sleeps often. It's maddening. Nothing of any importance has been said or done. Will is biting on his bottom lip, pulling off dry skin and not caring if it bleeds.

Of course when he's in a mood, a somber-looking Chiyoh decides to join him outside.

* * *

 _Nakama_ she had once thought. Perhaps elements of this are still true, but Chiyoh is no longer so blind.

She had known from the moment Hannibal had gathered Will up from the streets of Florence following her shot. She'd never seen him show such care to another, such clear concern, and watching him carrying Will through the snow as Chiyoh had provided a fine blanket of cover had merely confirmed the rest. If she'd had any doubt lingering, that doubt had been negated the moment Hannibal had told her in no uncertain terms that _he_ was to be responsible for Will's care in the house. Chiyoh had merely looked at him in silence, disapproval clear in her eyes, but she had not argued. Hannibal wouldn't have accepted it even if she had tried.

She watches this dance from a safe distance but her eyes rarely leave Will Graham. There is a danger behind his eyes, a volatility she recognizes from years at the Lecter estate. She's seen starving foxes with that same look before they dare to rush an area they know will result in certain death. But instinct and common sense do not go hand in hand. Will Graham is not yet starving but she can see the beginning of his hunger whenever he looks at Hannibal. She says nothing to him, though she does try to reason with Hannibal in her native tongue, to no avail.

So she relents. She treats Hannibal's wounds in respectful silence and bites her tongue when he immediately rises to go to Will. This is a pattern that continues for days.

That morning, Hannibal is the one to require more rest. She leaves him asleep in his room on his front, his back open to the air but for the gauze, and there is a fine twist of nausea in her stomach when she makes her way downstairs. She doesn't intend to seek Will out; she merely spots him on the patio and before she's made her decision, she opens the door and steps out with him.

Her expression is heavy as she regards him, but it isn't until she's walked over to him that she glances at him and says, "Are you a fox, Mr. Graham?"

* * *

If Will hadn't interfered in Chiyoh's affairs - letting her prisoner go - he wouldn't have to deal with her presence now. But _they_ \- Hannibal and he - wouldn't have made it out of Muskrat Farm then. Hannibal hadn't told him much, but he'd commented that Chiyoh played an important part in their escape. It's truly a tangled mess. All three of them have snared string connecting them, wrapped around throats and wrists, knotted and kinked and yet Will thinks Hannibal is the master puppeteer, surely able to untangle them and move them when necessary.

Or he used to be. Not so much now. Hannibal is weakened, recovering, and Will can tell he's in a hell of a lot more pain than Will is (although he doesn't say as much). There's slight flickers of agony and winces and it makes Will feel distinctly uncomfortable. Yes, he wants to know _why_ but he doesn't want to have to ask. He wants Hannibal to _want_ to share with him - to be vulnerable with him. But Hannibal remains guarded. Chiyoh tends to his wounds behind closed doors. Hannibal tends to him and Will's never seen Hannibal take anything for the pain. Stubborn ass.

Chiyoh's question has him raising an eyebrow and then angling his body to face her. "Why? You here to skin me?"

He's really not in the mood for this kind of conversation - of the dance and sway and the obscure references. Foxes. Cats. It's all bullshit. He _wants_ to talk to Hannibal, he wants to at least be in his room, but Chiyoh never lets them have any privacy, at least not when Hannibal is sleeping. She ensures the door is left locked and that she's never too far away.

* * *

The look Chiyoh sends Will in that moment is sharp, bordering on judgmental. She looks him over slowly, from his slightly-curling hair to his fine jaw growing heavier with stubble as the days go on. For a long moment she says nothing as the sea air attempts to do its part to clear their senses, but in the end, all it does is add a slightly salted scent to everything. Salt and silt and sea. Chiyoh remains silent for so long that it borders on uncomfortable, but after a thorough examination of Will's body, she looks back out over at the edge of the bluff and the sprawling Atlantic miles beyond.

"There are finer pelts," she says finally, with an edge that implies a great deal that she doesn't elaborate on.

Instead her expression hardens. Though her features are finer and her voice softer, she looks like Hannibal in that moment, her posture tall, her expression set. It's clear in one glance that it's something she'd learned from him a long time ago.

"In the dead of winter, when food is scarce, a fox will lose its cunning. Hunger blinds them. Even with a human's scent fresh on the air, leaving a rabbit tied out in the snow will draw them in. They know they will risk death by approaching but their hunger is too great. Nothing matters save the urge to kill." She blinks slowly and then looks over at Will pointedly, her expression carved in stone.

"You look like a fox to me."

* * *

In the face of Chiyoh's judgment, Will Graham stands his ground. Being the recipient of such looks is not a new thing. Although there is a particular hardness to Chiyoh's dark eyes that hadn't accompanied previous looks sent his way. Chiyoh doesn't look at him like he's a freak. Chiyoh likely has no idea about his empathy and hallucinations. About what he's done, what's been done to him and what he’s capable of. He never shared about much whilst on the train. Hannibal and Chiyoh may be thick as thieves, but Hannibal is far too polite to spill Will’s secrets.

When she judges his pelt as lesser, Will's lips twitch. She may not like the new skin he's grown into, but he likes his scales just fine. He looks her over blatantly, his eyes roaming over her tightly compact body. Chiyoh does remind him of Hannibal - proud and resolute at times - perhaps that's why he relaxed in her company on the train (and subsequently let himself be pushed off like an idiot). He listens to her story - always the stories with her. He knows what she's getting at and he can appreciate the metaphor - him as the mangy, desperate fox - but he's never been able to master the art of cunning. Once yes, with Hannibal, but with his impulsive nature it was difficult to pull off. He has a smile that confirms this.

Will steps closer to the edge. (His heartbeat is steady.) There is no fence or railing. This house is not meant for children (and there would be no children for them now). Will inclines his head - an invitation for Chiyoh to join him. For a moment he thinks she may decline, but she does warily step closer to him.

"Then why not get rid of the fox altogether? You could give me another kiss and push me over. It would be just like old times." Is it a dare? A suggestion? Food for thought? Not even Will knows.

* * *

Russet and cream fur, ears and paws tipped with black. Or perhaps a rarer breed, Chiyoh decides as she looks in the direction of clever blue eyes and the cunning, curled smile of Hannibal's fox. Melanistic, perhaps, with dark fur just barely tipped cream. Dark against the grounds. She still remembers the long jacket Will had worn, still remembers the way he'd held a jacket much darker while on the train. It's a jacket she regrets saving for him, for this is not a creature she deems appropriate to save. Handmaiden to Lady Murasaki or not, she has donned a new cloak and taken up a new post as Hannibal's protector. Hannibal's judge of character has always been somewhat questionable particularly in his whims.

When Will steps out towards the bluff, Chiyoh only watches him and then silently follows, wary but unafraid. The madness curls like burning bark in this one and she eyes his approach to the edge of the bluff dispassionately, though she does pause almost imperceptibly at his suggestion. Madness indeed.

She turns her eyes on Will Graham and in her mind's eye, she can see the pitiful creature crouched and panting with hunger within. Mercy, she thinks, would be a boon, but as she looks out at the roiling Atlantic and watches the waves crash against the rocks at the edge, all she does is make a silent mental note to inform Hannibal of his fox's desire to sprout wings and fly. When he's ready to receive such information, that is.

"Because the wolf has seen his shape reflected in more than the water he drinks from," Chiyoh replies calmly. "He sees your pelt and believes it is like his own. Wolves can be reckless, Mr. Graham, but they will not madly dash to their own deaths. Hannibal is too blind to see the difference. He has been alone too long." Chiyoh's gaze slides over then, to Will's bandaged shoulder.

"I should hope a single warning is enough for you, fox or not."

* * *

It would be easy to take the plunge himself, to aim for the rocks and splatter his brains upon them. The ocean would swallow him up greedily, an accomplice to his own act of extinction. Annihilation on his own terms - Will can appreciate the notion, but he's not done crawling around on this Earth. He feels like he's barely lived, really. If he's to meet his end, it must be Hannibal's hands that tighten the noose... Hannibal's hands, as of late, have only touched him clinically. Not necessarily coldly, but each action had clear intent and a logical backing. Hannibal playing Doctor with him hasn't been much fun. (Will's certain he can make it fun.)

He considers her words... Will as a reflection of Hannibal. Similar pelts, but not identical, both a part of the Canidae family. Alone too long. Nothing untrue. Chiyoh is an observant one. She's quiet and almost otherworldly, and all Will wants to do is knock her down and see her amidst the squalor. For her to be like everyone else and less like an unapproachable Hannibal. He's not threatened by her, though.

"You're a good guard dog, aren't you? Loyal. Dependable. Fierce when necessary, behaved when not," Will says mildly. "But your Master has a new toy now. I don't think he will be playing 'name-that-scent' with you anymore."

* * *

Foxes and ravens in folklore are well-known for their cunning and trickery, but also for their insidious barbs and cruelty. Chiyoh watches the transformation before her, watches as Hannibal's fox spreads his lips in a wide smile intended to be charming and winds up only baring his fangs. She regards him silently, ever patient, a port to Will's hurricane as he seeks to lash himself against her edges, to break through sand and sediment that has been in place for centuries with a whim only just formed in hours.

He calls her a guard dog and her lips only pull into a small smile. She wonders if he's made the connection. Certain guard dogs are bred to hunt and kill foxes.

"New toys are not long lived," she says quietly as she looks at him, unshakable. "They hold attention for a time. They foster excitement and wonder, but the novelty fades and memories revert back to the old and loved versus the new and interesting. I do not need to question my Master's loyalty to me, Mr. Graham." She turns then and faces Will directly, arms comfortable at her sides.

"Do you?"

* * *

When thinking of a possible future with Hannibal, Will's never included anyone else in it. He's dreamed of Abigail being with them, of course, but that had been a dream he helped shatter with his deception. That Chiyoh is here grates against Will's nerves. As intriguing as he may find her, Will doesn't want to share Hannibal. He doesn't want to have to be considerate to the same wench who pushed him off a train and shot him. Oh, he understands the _why_ of her actions and he _knows_ he would have done the same thing in her position, but jealousy is not practical and he's still figuring out the fit of his new skin.

When she smiles at the mention of a guard dog, it only takes Will a moment to piece it together - yes, dogs could be bred for hunting foxes. He may be a fox, but he's survived Hannibal Lecter twice and he will survive her.

That Chiyoh remains unflappable in the face of his retort doesn't come as a surprise. Will turns away from the unpredictable ocean and faces this enigmatic woman next to him. They were all toys. It didn't need saying. Hannibal wouldn't give them the time of day if they weren't interesting.

"Unlike you, I know him _intimately_." Not entirely untrue... "I can give Hannibal what he wants. You're merely a shade."

* * *

"Shade will always exist no matter how bright the light shines. For something to fade into obscurity it must first have existed enough to cause an impact," Chiyoh replies simply. There is nothing in her eyes as she looks at Will, no jealousy, no irritation, no annoyance. Her expression is clear but for the slight note of warning behind her eyes. Long had she remained alone at the Lecter estate. Renewed purpose brings with it renewed importance. Perhaps her prisoner is no longer alive, but Hannibal is, and she intends to keep him protected from the wide grin of this trickster.

"I have known Hannibal long enough that I feel no need to prove my worth. There are many types of intimacy, and many you will never understand. I do not require his attention to do what I must do, Mr. Graham. Even a shade can still protect, and you are intimately aware of my capabilities. Do not force my hand," Chiyoh says with a finality as she looks at him, at his bandaged shoulder and the weary set to his posture. He is injured and weak and looks frightfully small wrapped in clothing that hardly fits him. Like this he looks nothing like the feral beast that Chiyoh knows him to be, but she knows better than to trust a predator around prey, pitiful as he appears.

* * *

He's not really up to the task of verbally sparring with Chiyoh. He's tired, healing. Maybe Hannibal's right - he is traumatized. The longer the conversation goes on, the more Will feels like he's just _reacting_ and hastily trying to cover his vulnerable spots. She's entirely too calm and composed in the face of his retorts - an unshakable fucking mountain, and he doesn't care for it whatsoever. He's the opposite - changing, malleable, volatile - and perhaps Hannibal is right, he is at risk for exploding.

There _is_ an intimacy shared between Hannibal and Chiyoh, it’s one he's not privy to. He sees it in their shared, knowing glances. He hears it in the soft Japanese they speak to each other. He experiences it as the outsider as they exist in the same orbit, timeless and untouchable. There's an easiness, a gracefulness that permeates their interactions. They, too, have a history and it's likely longer than what he shares with Hannibal. There's no jealousy, no desperation within her, only her steadfast conviction. Will on the other hand...

The only thing he can think to say is, "He'd never forgive you if you did something to me." It's a petulant retort and Will stalks off the best he can. This fox is done playing with the guard dog. He doesn't want to hear whatever answer she would have doled out.

He heads back in and upstairs, the urge to see Hannibal increasing with every step. He'll feel better if he can, at the very least, see Hannibal. Maybe he won't even say anything, just pop his head in the door and then leave...

Hannibal's bedroom door is locked.

Of course it's locked. He's unstable. Chiyoh doesn't trust him. He feels like screaming. Like kicking down the door. He doesn't even know if he can with his shoulder feeling like shit. Will decides to go to the study and in between perusing through the books contained within, he rummages through office supplies.

* * *

It comes as no surprise to Chiyoh that the conversation swiftly comes to a close. Regardless of how sharp the teeth, a beaten, wounded, weary creature cannot stay defensive for long. Defense gives way to a retreat and Chiyoh at least honors Hannibal's new toy with the respect of her silence. She says nothing as he turns and disappears inside, his proverbial tail between his legs, but she is not fooled. Her eyes are sharp as he retreats and after giving him a wide enough berth, she follows in silence. Stepping into the house, she listens from the main floor as Will climbs the stairs and veers towards the two bedrooms and is not surprised when she hears the telling click of a locked door that will not open.

She doesn't smile; she feels no pleasure in this. Hannibal's toy is unstable and Hannibal himself cannot temper the madness while injured. All she can do is shield Hannibal until he can deal with the problem properly, and if she needs to do so with locked doors, she will. If she needs to stand vigil while armed, she will. Will Graham is a mad creature, is an eroding bluff with crumbling pieces. Eventually he will collapse and destroy everything resting upon him, and she doesn't intend for Hannibal to lose himself in the process.

*

"Are you so certain your leash is secure?"

Hannibal looks up from the bowl of soup in front of him, the savory mix of scents a comfort but his weariness makes it difficult to fully enjoy the effort Chiyoh has clearly put into the meal. He glances at her, at the deep set to her expression, and lowers the spoon. "Metaphorically?"

Chiyoh merely sends Hannibal a glance in return and then silently pulls her chair up closer to the edge of his bed. He's managed to sit up, one of her hands helping to support him, but the placement of the brand on his back makes comfort impossible. All she can do is manage and steady his hands.

"Will Graham is dangerous," she says simply, and after a moment, she shoos Hannibal's hand away from the bowl on the tray in front of him and takes the spoon herself. While a flicker of something does cross his eyes, she is insistent as she brings it to his lips.

"I spoke with him earlier," she adds, a peace offering.

"What makes you believe I have collared him?"

"He seems to think you have tried. He seems to think many things regarding your favor. Eat," she adds, and after a moment, Hannibal sighs but relents. She's given no thanks, but she doesn't need it. Hannibal's pride had always been a fickle creature, even as a young man.

"The only shackles he would ever accept are physical. I can no more collar him than I can collar the wind."

"A hurricane," Chiyoh agrees, and is treated to one of Hannibal's rare smiles. "He is dangerous. Reckless."

"Undoubtedly."

"You're pleased." It isn't a question.

"Merely not surprised."

Chiyoh's frown deepens then, and while she mulls over the statement as she offers Hannibal another spoonful of soup, eventually she sighs.

"He is self-destructive," she says, and is not surprised when Hannibal immediately looks at her. Despite the pain present behind his eyes, in that moment he looks alert. The wolf to his reflection... "He has thoughts of succumbing to the ocean."

"The circumstance?"

"An attempt to rile me up. He is lashing out without direction. When an animal gives in to madness and begins to lash out, it often only winds up hurting itself."

Hannibal's frown is thoughtful, perhaps bordering on concerned. He looks over toward the door for only a moment and then back at Chiyoh. Her expression remains clear, stoic, free of judgement, and Hannibal wonders idly just what sequence of events led to Chiyoh's desire to serve him with this voracity.

"Ensure his madness is contained."

"That is not _my_ job, Hannibal," Chiyoh replies calmly, with an edge to her voice so similar to the swords she had once taught him with when they'd been younger. "He is not my charge."

"Nor am I. Technically." Hannibal sighs and eases himself up just a little more. He's not surprised when Chiyoh immediately compensates for the movement. "Please. Until I am able. You needn't enjoy his company--"

"I don't."

Hannibal's smile is a quick, fleeting thing. "If you don't, I will be forced to."

It's enough, as Hannibal had known it would be. Chiyoh goes still for a moment as she looks at him. Her expression pinches for the briefest of seconds and then she merely sighs, a long, slightly-frustrated thing. Then she nods, clipped.

"I do not trust him around you. Nor will I. If it is between you both... pray that never happens. But I will ensure he does not try to fly. He's already failed once," she adds, somewhat stiffly, thinking of the way he'd soared from the back of the train and crashed along the tracks. The thought, petty as it is, makes her feel better.

"That is all I ask," Hannibal says, and that's all _they_ need to say. Conversation lapses once more into a comfortable, familiar silence, and when Chiyoh leaves almost an hour later, she locks Hannibal's door behind her, leaving him once more to get some rest.

* * *

Will can only imagine what Chiyoh has told Hannibal about their morning conversation. Foxes and wolves and other fanciful bullshit. Hannibal likely ate it up. The two of them are perfect dancing partners in such a pursuit, each complementing the other in their obscure conversations. The thought of _them_ talking about _him_ fans his agitation further and Will spends the rest of the day by himself. Hannibal isn't exactly quarantined from him, but Chiyoh hovers nearby except when Hannibal checks on his wounds. So, Will feeds himself and declines dinner with them. Silence punctuated by occasional Japanese? He’s not in the mood for it tonight. He's sure his presence isn't missed. Hannibal seems to be in no hurry to actually spend time with him. (This bothers him him more than he wants to admit. They may have all the time in the world, but that doesn't make Will want to _wait_.)

On his bed, he does lean his head back, eyes closing.

_Will wades into the quiet of the stream. Abigail is next to him, alive, her eyes bright and blue. (Here, his heart aches instead of his shoulder.) She has her hair in one long braid, practical - good for fishing and hunting - Will thinks. He wonders if she does it herself or she needs help. He could probably manage to braid hair... (For all the thought about Abigail Hobbs being a surrogate daughter, Will knew very little about people her age, especially females.)_

_'It's nice, isn't it?' she asks. He knows what she is referring to._

_'Yeah, it's beautiful. I have a room with a view and everything,' Will answers with a wry grin._

_'I told you he had a place for us.'_

_'Yeah, you did.' They smile at each other._

He tells himself it's better to imagine her in his mind. It's not a hallucination that way.

*

The paper clip burns in the palm of his hand. Will has been standing in the dark, against his closed door, straining to hear Chiyoh finally retreat for the night. He waits until he can longer stand to before slipping out of his room. Will is clad in a loose fitting tee shirt and his boxers. Hannibal has seen him in such attire before, as he normally comes to his room in the morning to check on his injuries.

It's hurts like a bitch to pick the lock with his right hand, but Will is committed. He bites down hard on his bottom lip, concentrating on working the elongated paper clip through the keyhole and tinkering until he hears the telltale click of the mechanism unlocking. It's with a slow exhale of relief that Will stands up and creeps into Hannibal's room, shutting the door behind him.

The room is dark, the blinds closed and Hannibal is asleep. A moment later, Will sees and hears the obvious restlessness. He stands there like an idiot, watching Hannibal, witnessing him in a state of weakness, and it feels _wrong._ Will steps closer. He shakes Hannibal's shoulder softly with his left hand.

"Hey, wake up," Will murmurs quietly. "Hannibal."

* * *

Hannibal does not suffer injury well. His pain tolerance has always been high; he can withstand a great many things, but that doesn't mean his body is immune to the effects of injury. The deep curling gash from Jack's meat hook is undoubtedly his most irritating injury. For while he can put himself above the ache to his leg, his muscles are weak and torn, not working properly. It isn't a matter of being too sore. It's merely a matter of muscle not being properly connected. Sever a tendon or a ligament and regardless of how primed one's body is, it will still fall apart without structure. His shoulder remains swollen from the breaking wheel but the other cuts are hardly important.

But as he had known it would be, the _worst_ injury is the brand to his back. With cauterizing, blistering burns seared layers-deep into his flesh, it is not something that will heal mildly; healing a burn pushes the edges of even his limits. While he puts himself above the pain, it is exhausting and his body has been consistently weary since arriving at the house on the bluff. He sleeps far more than he wants to, and aches almost more than he can stand. Stubborn as it sounds, he doesn't have _time_ for injury at present (regardless of the fact that right now, all he has _is_ time...). Yet just as Chiyoh blocks Will's attempts to sneak in, so too does she insist on his rest. She compromises on the pain medication when Hannibal lays down an ultimatum that he will take it before sleep and no other time or he will not take it at all. Hannibal intends to save the most of it for Will.

Though that means the combination of injury and medication and exhaustion compile viciously on his system, slowing his pulse, drawing out the occasional stressful sweat, affecting his appetite and his ability to sleep comfortably. All in all, despite the face he puts on for Will when he tends to his wounds, Hannibal needs the rest Chiyoh forces upon him. So when the lock clicks open that evening, the room dark as sin, Hannibal doesn't wake. That alone is telling regarding his state of being, his body weary and his mind racing with what Chiyoh had told him.

Will Graham is not a man Hannibal intends to lose. Not now. He will push, he will prod, but he will not _break_ , and that Will has been considering the edge of the bluff means Hannibal's dreams - fueled by medication as they are - are not kind to him. He shifts upon the bed, laying on his stomach, gauze pressed to the brand on his back enough to obscure it from view even if the lights in the room were on. Pain fevers his dreams and frays his nerves and so when Will's hand falls down upon his shoulder and gently shakes him, it takes Hannibal a few seconds to register that he's asleep and that there's someone in the room.

He tenses immediately but before the message can make it from his brain to his hand in order to lash out, the soft earthen scent so familiar to him registers. _Will_. Hannibal remains tense for a moment, caught in an odd, hazy confusion between dreams and wakefulness, but it takes him very little time to piece together what he believes is reality.

"Will?" Hannibal asks, and his voice is gravel with exhaustion. Expression heavy in the dark, Hannibal slowly begins to shift before the somewhat-muted pain to his back returns. The medication in his system is taking no prisoners, but it still isn't strong enough to withstand a brand intended to maim.

It _is_ strong enough to gift him with an odd relief that Will is still here. Nightmares falling by the wayside, Hannibal looks up at Will and slowly - and painfully - levers himself up onto one elbow.

"Are you alright?"

* * *

Will glances down at the man who had outwitted and left them all marked and changed in a single evening. Il Mostro as a young man. The Chesapeake Ripper, later. Hannibal Lecter, in the flesh. _Human_. So incredibly human as Will witnesses Hannibal disoriented from sleep and in obvious pain. It's a sobering realization for him... Human and able to bleed like the rest of them.

If the powerful and cunning can be brought low, can the desperate and starved be sated? Will doesn't know, but if the gnawing inside of him could dull, he would appreciate it. What he _does_ know is that he doesn't like Hannibal suffering from injuries not directly caused by him. However, he's completely helpless in this area. He's not even certain where the drugs or first aid supplies are being kept. Will honestly wouldn't be surprised if they were kept under lock and key. (Maybe the house is Will Graham proofed? What a shitty thought.)

"Yeah, it's me," Will answers, his voice quiet and a little tight. "And I'm fine." When he sees Hannibal struggle to sit up, Will doesn't even think as he comes around to the other side of the bed. "You don't have to get up. Just lay however is comfortable." He's still in the dark about what injuries Hannibal has sustained, but now after days have passed, he's wary about asking, about knowing…

He hasn't technically been invited, but Will climbs onto the bed, shifting closer but sitting up with a pillow behind him. He doesn't get under the sheets.

"Spent so much time thinking and dreaming about you... Now that we're in the same place, I barely see you. You have quite the guard dog."

* * *

Hannibal is all set to ease himself up; he thinks nothing of it. In the days they have been at the house, Will has not sought him out. Hannibal goes to him, tends to his wounds, and they both observe the mutual tension thrumming between them at the reminder of Will's admission that first day, but they've done nothing about it. For Hannibal, knowing is enough for now. Yet this is new. This is Will seeking him out and while he remains calm, there is a flicker of alarm that something has happened, or that Will has injured himself. Chiyoh's mention of Will's fixation with the Atlantic has apparently troubled him more than he cares to admit.

Before he can make it higher than his elbows, Will steps around to the other side of the bed, his tone quick, almost hesitant. Hannibal considers the offer. A small part of him wishes to push through the discomfort and keep them on level ground, but the growing ache between his shoulders settles the issue for him. With a soft sigh, Hannibal eases back down onto his front on the bed, his arms loosely slipping under his pillow.

Hannibal says nothing as Will joins him on the bed, though for a moment he does consider the possibility that he might be dreaming.

"Chiyoh is loyal, though somewhat overzealous," Hannibal agrees as his cheek comes to rest on the pillow. His eyes wish to slide closed again but he keeps them open. Whether or not this is a dream or a hallucination brought on by the medication, it is still Will Graham voluntarily in his orbit. He isn't willing to take the risk.

"I assume she has been barring entry," Hannibal adds after a moment, for it takes very little time for him to connect those two pieces of information together. A guard dog and Will being absent. The conclusion is obvious.

"You've not been coming down for meals. I assumed you wished your space."

* * *

Will can sense Hannibal's discomfort - that he doesn't want to be held back from pain - so he's unsure if Hannibal will listen. Will can relate. That it's his right side that sustained the injury has been quite aggravating. He's had to switch to using his left hand for most things - from grabbing a cup to wiping his ass. Hannibal had warned him that if he over did it, he'd get a sling or brace. Will doesn't want such a restriction, so he's been careful (except for picking the lock as that task needed dexterity). But Hannibal does listen and Will feels relieved at seeing Hannibal settle down on his stomach in defeat.

"Meals are awkward when the two of you speak in Japanese. I'm sure you're aware that I don't speak or understand it," Will says simply.

There was no point in lying, especially if it was just the two of them talking. Will shifts closer before reaching out with his left hand to run his fingers through Hannibal's hair slowly. The strands are soft and fine. Will's both calm and excited to be reaching out like this. It's always been Hannibal, but now it doesn't have to be. His heartrate is elevated, but his hand doesn't shake as he continues brushing his fingers through Hannibal's hair.

"But if I must break into your room late at night, I will. She won't keep you from me." His voice has a slight edge to it, a hardness. (Yes, he's both a determined and desperate man.)

He does mean it. Maybe he will even practice lock picking with his left hand when Chiyoh is out.

* * *

Hannibal's frown is immediate when Will points out his conversing in Japanese. Brows knitting as he looks at Will, Hannibal goes silent for a moment, studying the picture Will makes on the bed. It strikes him that this is the first time they have rested together. An argument could be made for being strung upside-down in Mason's container but Hannibal doubts that incident counts. He doesn't bother trying to justify it for his attention is elsewhere, on Will. He knows he occasionally converses with Chiyoh in soft-spoken Japanese but he's made a point to never do so with Will around. Chiyoh attempts at times but Hannibal declines the offer. It appears that Will has been hovering on a few occasions that Hannibal hadn't known about. The possibility of his senses being so faded right now is troubling to say the least.

"I was not aware you were present, Will," Hannibal says mildly. "If you see fit to join us in the future - and I ask that you do - I will keep the conversation strictly English."

It's a promise without the words, but Hannibal is confident Will understands. Will has understood quite a lot over the years, but as they rest together - as Will's hand slides over and finds its way to Hannibal's hair - he finds himself wondering if they've ever truly understood each other. Will's touch is soft and thrilling, sending a small ripple of sensation through him that makes his injuries ache, but the voluntary touch of Will's hand is well worth it. Will is not in the habit of touching him like this. Hannibal cannot help but be stunned that he is doing so now.

Bit by bit his muscles relax again and he watches Will with a curious contentment. That edge to Will's voice is curling and sharp and Hannibal revels in it. Will is not the lowly, desperate creature he had been in the catacombs. Hannibal is silent for a moment and then he reaches over. His fingers do little more than touch Will's side before Hannibal allows his forearm to rest against the length of Will's thigh. He doesn't touch blatantly, he merely rests, merely completes the circuit of contact.

"I have no desire to keep you out. I can speak with Chiyoh if you wish. But in return," Hannibal says, and there's a slight edge of concern to his tone, "I would ask that you refrain from baiting her. She informed me of your conversation earlier, and I am... concerned."

* * *

If Chiyoh and Hannibal didn't converse in Japanese, would he join them for their mock 'family meals'? Will's not certain. Family... He'd claimed to never have connected to the concept, using the metaphor of an ill-fitting suit. Even so, he couldn't help but feel pulled toward Abigail Hobbs and all the what ifs (lazy afternoons teaching her to fish) and then again with the idea of being a father to Margot's baby. Wasn't there always some defiant bitterness that one could raise a child and a be a better parent than their own had been? But there is no _real_ surrogate daughter for him anymore, and he doubts he'll be making a sperm donation to Chiyoh. Men like them don't create families, they _make_ their own. Will doesn't know what kind of family unit they currently are, but it's something. It's all he has. Hannibal and Chiyoh are all he has now.

When Hannibal reaches out, it's a brief glance to his side and then his forearm coming to rest on Will's thigh. Will's own hand stops its movement, curious if any other touch will be forthcoming. Nothing else does. Will then continues stroking through soft hair and coming to the realization that he prefers Hannibal's hair to be like this compared to rigidly held in place with product. Maybe he'll even tell him one day... Doesn't even seem that odd to imagine a time where they would be comfortable enough to share opinions like that. One day.

When Hannibal mentions Chiyoh and their previous conversation, Will doesn't even stop himself from spitting out, "She started it." It's beyond petulant, but he doesn't care. _She_ had deliberately sought him out, starting the whole 'are you a fox' bullshit. It irritates Will just thinking about it and his fingers curl in Hannibal's hair pulling lightly.

He does know why Hannibal is concerned so Will adds on, "And I'm _not_ suicidal. As if I survived _you_ and all this craziness just to go jump off a cliff?" Will forces his grip to relax, looking down at Hannibal in his sorry state.

"You're stuck with me. Actually, we're stuck with each other."

* * *

The curl of fingers in Hannibal's hair is unexpected but not unwelcome. Like this, drifting on the fatigue brought on by injury and extended pain responses, Will's petulance and his subsequent reaction catch him off guard. The pull to his hair startles a slightly sharper breath from his lungs for it speaks of an intimacy that Will likely isn't even aware of. The pinpoint sensation curls through him and while the resulting shiver nearly makes him wince, Hannibal doesn't bother to hide the gasp or try and control his reaction. Will's touch is still new and there is a part of Hannibal that still wonders if he's merely imagining this. Perhaps he's merely alone in his bed and pain has brought on hallucinations. He doubts it, but it is a possibility.

Will's petulance is telling however. Through the flicker of sensation from Will's hand in his hair, Hannibal sends Will a look, not quite incredulous, but enough that Will can be left aware that Hannibal knows how petulant his response had sounded. Aside from the expression, Hannibal doesn't move. He merely keeps his forearm pressed along Will's thigh, soaking in the contact and the warmth. Bit by bit Will's hold in his hair relaxes and Hannibal sighs, taking the risk to allow his eyes to fall shut for a moment.

Perhaps Will has a blade, or a noose. There are many reasons to not close his eyes around this man and Hannibal cannot find it within himself to care. He merely listens as Will talks and when he finishes - his reassurance lingering pointedly between them - Hannibal finally opens his eyes again and tries not to appear shocked that Will is still there. Not a hallucination or a dream, then. Good.

"I would rather be stuck with you than without you, Will," he says honestly, for even slightly _off_ from the drugs and the uncertainty regarding this new stage of co-existence, Hannibal wishes Will by his side. "I believe we have been without each other for long enough."

* * *

Will notices that his grip intensifying has Hannibal reacting - a sharp gasp and a shiver working through his body. It has Will curious what else his touch could bring about in Hannibal. They're both in no position to get touchy - sexual or otherwise - but Will doesn't push it from his mind. Why should he? He's chosen Hannibal Lecter and it should be daunting, but it's not really. He’s fallen in love with murderer - a man - a sadist - a destructive force that has torn up his life. Will must be mad, marbles rolling away and underneath furniture and all he wants to do touch and wreck this body beside him.

He observes the outline of Hannibal's face, watches him close his eyes and then reopen them. Will thinks Hannibal must have taken some medication before bed as he appears groggy. When Hannibal responds, claiming that he would rather be stuck with him and that they have been without each other for quite some time, Will's hand leaves Hannibal's head. Instead, he seeks out Hannibal's own hand, spreading the digits and tracing up each of Hannibal's fingers with the tips of his fingers. He thinks of how trusting and weak Hannibal is right now.

"I could break your fingers," Will comments, voice soft. He doesn't, interlocking their fingers together instead and squeezing.

"I hate seeing you weak like this... I hate being weak like this too."

* * *

If Will's blade had been forgiveness back in Florence, Hannibal wonders idly what a noose would be. Justice? Affection? Perhaps he will never know. Perhaps if the blade is Will's forgiveness, Will never will forgive him in the end. The thought is enough to settle heavy in Hannibal's mind, stopped like a sifter that needs to be cleaned, only speckles of awareness drifting through when his focus gathers enough to clear the mess. He blinks slowly as Will's fingers leave his hair and instead slide down to where Hannibal's arm is resting against Will's thigh. He watches silently as Will's hand trails up higher and when Will's fingers brush over the back of his hand, Hannibal considers for only a moment before he splays his hand wide in invitation.

Will takes the offer and Hannibal is treated to further intimacy, slow and soft and so unlike the last few months of violence. Will's fingers are callused; Hannibal focuses on them, recalling the way Will's hand had lain lax in his own when he'd been cleaning blood from Will's knuckles all those many months ago. A lifetime ago. Simpler times, a shared darkness, before betrayal on both of their sides. Hannibal watches Will's fingers and when the threat comes, Hannibal merely hums his agreement. Will _could_ break his fingers, yes. He doesn't seem concerned.

"I am as weak as I permit myself to be," Hannibal says softly, and he gives Will's hand a small pull closer. Hannibal's lips press to the back of Will's knuckles only once before allowing Will's hand to rest closer. He moves the hand up just enough to expose Will's wrist and then leans in enough to press another kiss to soft, delicate skin. It'd be easy to break it, to sink his teeth into Will's wrist. He doesn't. Instead he basks in the pulse against his lips and allows his eyes to close again.

"And you are only as strong as I permit you to be. You could break my fingers," Hannibal confirms. His accent is slightly thicker around the words but he does get them out. "I wouldn't stop you. Though it would be difficult for you if you hate seeing me weak.

* * *

Will's not exactly concerned with forgiveness. Will isn't sure if he can even truly forgive Hannibal (or himself). Has Hannibal forgiven him, even? He'd said so in the kitchen, but Will had also uttered the words while searching in the catacombs. Did it matter? Forgiveness was just a word, an ideal at best. How could one just let everything go? To have the betrayals not matter and not hurt? The concept is cast aside, a fish thrown back. Will doesn't want it.

Hannibal's hand is soft, not quite like a woman's - not like Alana's or Margot's had been - but noticeably softer than Will's own. Hannibal has hands that orchestrate death and create art both on and off the dinner table. Hands that are steady with a blade and skilled with stitching up wounds. What can Will's hands all do? (Pull a trigger, punch until his knuckles split, set a prisoner free, grasp a knife...) What else? What _now_?

Break bones? Snap Hannibal's fingers? No. He could, but the impulse is just that - an impulse. Hannibal doesn't seem bothered, making a hum of acknowledgement and claiming he's only a weak as he permits himself to be. (Will's tired of the obscure and vague.) He lets his hand be drawn closer, Hannibal's mouth giving his knuckles a chaste kiss. Will remembers Hannibal's warm touch when he'd tended to his knuckles after Tier. Will wants to know what Hannibal's blood would look like on his knuckles. He'd fantasized about punching Hannibal - punching the wendigo... He doesn't want to kill Hannibal, no, but he wouldn't mind fucking Hannibal up. He wouldn't mind _being_ fucked up by Hannibal too. Even Steven and all.

His wrist is gifted with a chaste press of lips and despite being on meds, being in pain and being out of his element, Will feels the slight flicker of arousal. Hannibal can undoubtedly feel his pulse. Still close to his wrist, Hannibal's eyes slip shut again. Will hangs on Hannibal's words. Hannibal sounds tired and a little medicated, but unlike the weakness and signs of pain, Will doesn't mind it as much.

"I would prefer you whole and strong, covered in blood like you had been while carrying me amidst the snow... It was like a twisted fairytale." Will's voice drops off at the memory of his very own Prince Charming coming to the rescue after unleashing vengeance.

* * *

Hannibal's eyes open at that. He's quiet in surprise as his vision refocuses, and he looks up at Will with a curious, appraising expression. For a moment Hannibal considers his response, but in the end all he can do is court honesty. Will has that effect on him even now, even after injury and betrayal and rage on both sides.

"You're able to recall that?" Hannibal asks quietly, and the flicker of Will's pulse against his lips takes on a slightly new meaning as the words solidify the scene. Like a wolf reacting to the scent of blood, something calmer breaks through the haze of medication and pain and fatigue etched into Hannibal's body and instead helps to focus him.

Regardless of injury, they both have their natures. Hannibal can no more shut his instincts down than Will can, and despite how unlike himself he feels, he is not so far gone that he has no interest in this gift Will had just handed him. The gift of knowledge. Hannibal wets his lips, and in doing so, accidentally tastes Will's wrist. He swears he can taste the salt of his blood from that single touch.

"I was unaware you were conscious enough to process those memories. Given what Cordell had injected into your system, I had assumed you were too drugged for memories to make it into long-term storage."

There's a flicker of pride in Hannibal's voice, like Will has done something fascinating. In truth, he has. Paralytics - while not anesthetic by their very nature - often do not lend themselves well to memories. Paralytics do not block pain, merely movement, and the use of them in modern medicine is barbaric at best. Often times patients will simply pass out - as Will had. Hannibal remembers checking the response in Will's pupils, remembers the dead weight in his arms he had been determined to herald to safety. He'd not been in any state for anything more than a hazy comment. Hannibal had assumed that was all it was: delirium.

"Most fairy tales are twisted in some regard, Will. The original versions without translation tend to be rather barbaric. Though given what I was willing to do and what I did to secure your safety, the comparison is... accurate. Do you remember much?" Hannibal asks, sounding genuinely curious. "You woke once, but I hardly expected you to remember that. Remarkable."

* * *

It's been less than a week that they've taken up residence at this house on the bluff. It hadn't taken Will any time at all to adjust to the sea air and the sounds of the waves crashing upon the rocks. Despite the interaction with Chiyoh earlier, he plans to revisit his vantage point and glance over the cliff. He's not suicidal, he hadn't been lying, but there's still a siren's call that edges him closer to chaos. It's all he's known since Hannibal. Since Hobbs. He feels Hannibal's tongue accidentally touch his wrist and the desire to push into Hannibal's mouth, to seek out teeth is there. (Because maybe he should have scars along his wrists as well.)

Yes, chaos. Will wants to ask if Abigail had lived here. He wants to effectively reopen one wound even though they're actually getting along right now. Hannibal even sounds proud that he'd been able to recall the memory of being carried after his near transplant ordeal. Will could feel good about it - feel good that Hannibal is proud, but he made no conscious effort to _try_ and do it.

Are they meant for a peaceful existence? Will's uncertain. He tries to focus on Hannibal's words. On the question. What he remembers. Will glances at the window. The blinds are drawn closed off course. He thinks of Hannibal like some ailing King kept locked away from the world...

"You looked like shit," Will answers bluntly and turns his attention back down to Hannibal. He decides to go for it. Will pushes his wrist against Hannibal's mouth with force, trying to find the bite of teeth.

"And by that I mean, you were covered in carnage and destruction and _perfect_."

It's a little much, but he doesn't care. Hannibal may not even remember this conversation come morning.

* * *

Will's response is met with a small pinch to Hannibal's brow, an expression of would-be-offense. He doesn't enjoy the statement any more than he feels Will would were their situations reversed. Yet before Hannibal can dole out a sluggish protest, Will's intent shifts. Like a falcon moving from a gentle glide across the sky to a bullet streaking through the air in search of prey, Will suddenly pushes forward. Hannibal is caught off guard by the press, by the way Will's wrist suddenly shoves against his lips. Will's force threatens to crush Hannibal's lips against his teeth and he makes a small sound of displeasure as he tries to draw back, but Will is persistent.

Hannibal wonders if this is Will's attempt to asphyxiate him, but when Will's voice - heated and rough with violence - breaks through the fog of medication, the word 'perfect' stands out in stark contrast and Hannibal understands. Will isn't attempting to kill him. He's seeking, pushing, _needing_ something, though Hannibal doesn't know what that is until Will's wrist scrapes hard against his teeth and he feels the reaction in his companion almost viscerally. Will pushes and Hannibal stops trying to move away, his teeth catching sharp on the delicate skin of Will's inner wrist, where his blood pumps hot and quick just under the surface.

He doesn't bite, not yet, though the temptation is there. Instead he lets Will press, lets him seek. He keeps still for a long moment before his grip on Will's wrist tightens. He's weaker than he normally is, but that doesn't mean he's weak, and he feels Will's tendons press close under his hand as Hannibal turns his head enough to speak.

"Mason Verger woke up with a new face. It wasn't yours. He and all those who attempted to take you from me are dead," Hannibal says lowly. His accent is thick but his voice is steady. He presses his teeth to Will's wrist again and looks at him quietly, waiting for direction.

* * *

Understandably, his first reply doesn't please Hannibal. It's still the truth. Hannibal had looked like shit - weary, exhausted and splattered with blood, but possessing a grim determination. Will's insistence at finding Hannibal's teeth seems to surprise the older man - it could possibly be seen as an act of aggression. Also understandable. They may be conjoined, but Will has given no hint at his intention and Hannibal is not operating at full capacity either. When teeth scrape their greeting against sensitive skin, Will shudders. (He can remember blood dripping down his forehead... how would a bloody wrist look dripping on Hannibal, dripping on the sheets? Knife blade. Saw blade. Scalpel. Teeth. Will doesn't care; Will wants the sharpness, for isn't that what he attracts?)

For a moment there's just the threat of teeth biting and Hannibal does nothing. And then Hannibal's grip tightens to hold his wrist still and allow Hannibal to speak. Despite his impatience, despite his urges, Will listens because he's also curious about the events and this is information being offered up willingly.

He considers what's just been revealed. A slaughter, essentially, ironic and justly deserved. Bodies left in Hannibal's wake as he made his way through the Verge estate fueled by revenge. Everyone dead...

"Except you," Will states. It's a challenge and his eyes narrow. "You almost succeeded in taking me away from you. Got about as far or further than Cordell. And we both know that Mason intervening saved me from you."

* * *

Like the curved blade that Hannibal had sunk into Will's abdomen, pulling apart flesh and fat and muscle to expose what had never been meant to see the light, Will's voice sharpens and curves and his words cut just as deeply. Hannibal isn't expecting them, has no defense against brutal honesty, and even though his teeth are pressed to Will's wrist, it is Will who bites deep, sinking long, curved fangs into Hannibal's mind with his defenses down. In an abstract way, Hannibal cannot deny that Will's attack is brutal and beautiful. Perhaps he'll admire it later for its viciousness, but in the moment directly following the reminder, Hannibal's gaze snaps up to Will's eyes and he goes very still, hardly able to feel the skin pressed against his lips anymore.

The reminder is brutal. ' _Except you._ ' The reminder that it had been Mason Verger to save Will from him is sharp. It's more offensive than had Will slapped him across the face. In a way, he has. Clever boy, grabbing weakness and fostering a safer environment. He'd made a point to find Hannibal at his weakest, tired, drugged, and pained, and he'd sought to slip his own harpy knife in against Hannibal's skin, carving deep. The words scar in an instant and Hannibal's expression goes blank. He has no pre-approved facial expression, no mask to wear. Will has caught him vulnerable and off guard and the flicker of anger and regret that trips him up before he can hide it is very visible.

"And yet you waltz into my room willingly," Hannibal replies finally, releasing Will's wrist. He settles his arms on the bed and though pain flares hot, Hannibal eases himself up, sliding the blankets back as he sits back on his heels on the bed. Will no longer sits taller than he does and Hannibal's gaze - while still hazy from medications - is harder. While the gauze wrapped around his back and chest obscure the healing brand, Hannibal is bare otherwise but for a pair of boxers. The deep bruising from Jack's attack stands out in stark contrast to pale skin against his sides. It's a taste of what he's gone through and Hannibal doesn't explain it.

"You choose this. Choose me. You claim to want everything, yet you don't forgive, allowing your bitterness to fester like an open wound. What do you want, Will?" Hannibal asks flatly, a curl of anger in his tone. "Is this a reckoning or simply your recklessness?"

* * *

It may have been better to ask about Abigail than what he's mentioned. Actually, it probably would have been better. As soon as the words are out, Will knows that even if a peaceful coexistence is possible, it's going to be him that tests it and pushes against the boundaries. It's his nature to do such a thing, isn't it? To create wrinkles. There would be no pristine pressed suits and folded pocket squares in Hannibal's future, not if Will was around. (Hands grabbing, fingers curling, he wants to pull off buttons, hear threads tear--)

He doesn't need a weapon to cut or attack. His words carry out the action exceptionally. Had this been his intention all along? To seek out a weakened Hannibal and sling words at him? Is it thoughts of cliff diving or _this_? Whatever intimacy had been created with lips and teeth against his wrist is dashed in an instant and Will is a little sad to see it go. Blankness meets him, and then there's anger and regret mixing on Hannibal's face. Will stiffens when he sees Hannibal move, but Hannibal doesn't attack. Hannibal, with not amount of ease, sits himself up. They're on more equal playing ground - at least in this way. Despite Will being in less pain and entirely awake, he doesn't necessarily feel on even ground with Hannibal.

Hannibal calls out his contradictions elegantly. He's tried to ignore the idea of forgiveness, of the betrayals that each of them are guilty of. Will feels his wrist with the fingers of his other hand. Hannibal's touch is phantom, no warmth or mark left behind from it. Will can tell Hannibal is worse off than him. Will's only significant wound is from Chiyoh's gun. The cuts on his face will undoubtedly scar, but they don't hurt terribly compared to jostling his shoulder. Hannibal is patterned with bruises, wounded on his back from something. He doesn't know what's all from Jack or Mason.

"I think I'm scared of you. Scared of _us_." His voice is quiet.

This isn't what Will wants to admit, but he knows it's the truth. Hannibal had seemed quite adamant _and_ alright with getting into his head. (Shitty soup, parsley and thyme but not for him, a table for three...) Yes, he's been saved and patched up, but Will doesn't know if something could change in the future and Hannibal decides to be intimate in another way and eat him. Will knows his nature. He's not going to behave. Reckoning or recklessness, he's going to get under Hannibal's skin. He just wants to keep his.

(Will doesn't even want to think of why he's scared of _them_.)

* * *

Mistakes are an inevitable part of life but Hannibal has not been a man to make many. That he had allowed himself to slip so far, had allowed himself to cling to the idea that forgiveness and betrayal could be solved with one simple action is one he reels from even now. Like a man giving in to an impulsive, violent thought and suffering the consequences, he's left shaken by his own actions. Hannibal has never been one to act without thinking. He always has a reason.

Watching blood spray from Will's forehead had felt _just_ in that moment. Ridding himself of excess baggage, as it were, honoring him despite this, forcing Jack to partake of something so vital. Poetically it had made sense. It had appealed to his flair for art and irony. Yet now, thinking back on it, he can feel no heart in it. A bastardization on the last supper they had planned, to slaughter Jack together... Hannibal can see irony. He can see appeal. He can understand the _why_ in an intellectual, academic way, but with emotions flooding him as he looks at Will, at the way his fingers curl around his wrist, Hannibal again realizes how empty the endeavor had been.

He had not been an intellectual. He had not felt anything. He'd been acting on nothing more than impulse and drive, like a man possessed, as shambling as Will had been under the effects of encephalitis, and that Will brings it up now is clearly no accident.

The admission curls something volatile within Hannibal's chest. He says nothing for a long time, his expression cold and controlled, but secretly he cannot help but agree. Will is not the only one afraid of him. Anxiety is not a common emotion within his breast, but Hannibal cannot deny he fears that emotional lapse. He has only felt it once before. A telling blindness to the facts, operating on nothing more than instinct and need.

A bowl of broth shoved under his lips in the middle of an old, wooden cabin, with fractals frozen upon frosted windows...

Will's admission is painfully honest and Hannibal is left struggling through the haze of pain and medication. It deserves a true answer but that Will has _dared_ to bring up an event Hannibal would prefer to forget makes it difficult to remain objective. Will is well within his rights. The problem is that Hannibal has no answers. Not for this.

Given what Will has been through the past few months, he is not bringing up something scandalous. It makes sense to wish to know. It makes _sense_ to be afraid, and for the first time since Will had claimed to want everything, Hannibal wonders how much of that statement was Will and how much was fear. Rule number one after being taken: empathize with a kidnapper. Make yourself invaluable to them. Hannibal feels something settle colder in his stomach.

"You're afraid of me. And yet you've walked into my room. You've tempted. You've _pushed_." Hannibal's voice is even, but the curl of anger is almost palpable.

"You will not throw yourself from the edges of the bluff, you said. I cannot help but wonder if it is because _I_ am your bluff now. Throw yourself to me and try your luck, because you never know what worse luck your bad luck has saved you from?"

* * *

Strange to be talking of fear. Most of his life Will's only been afraid of his own mind. The empathy. The nightmares. The hallucinations. The recklessness. Untasty thoughts and erratic emotions that stir up guilt and conflict. Safer to act like he was on the spectrum, safer to avoid eyes and socialization. Safer with his dogs, teaching and yet he got involved... He's never been a stable man. Hannibal exploited it. Jack sought to contain it. Alana saw and knew to stay away. But he was stuck with it. Whatever rattled and lurked in his skull were his own demons, but now he had something - someone - entirely separate of himself that's a threat.

Hannibal Lecter _is_ a threat. He's dangerous, face on the FBI's most wanted site and all. Will may suck at self-preservation, but he has enough evidence that lit up the warning signs in his mind. Hannibal may be cunning, may have fooled them all, but Will can recognize a thread of recklessness within Hannibal. Is it the red thread that connects them or another one entirely? Will doesn't know.

But Hannibal had allowed him to live in the kitchen and down in the catacombs, but in an apartment in Florence, a table had been set with a nearby frying pan awaiting his contribution. Three places. Three men. And he was to be _meat_. Was it punishment for Will pulling the knife, or had Hannibal planned on taking him there no matter what? (Hadn't they both smiled in front of the Primavera, eyes taking in the other with great interest?) Will's unsure if he wants to know the answer.

He had believed that this was finally their running away together, but he hadn't been consulted... And they're not alone, also he knows Chiyoh has no plans on leaving them any time soon. Has he essentially been kidnapped? He'd been ready in the catacombs, but Hannibal deemed him unfit. Is he fit _now_?

Hannibal looks displeased. The distance between them returns, growing even. They may be barely dressed and in the same bed, but there's no longer an intimacy or a comfortable familiarity between them. His admission now feels like a dirty confession - and no matter how much Will wants to, he cannot take it back. His heart pounds in his chest as the silence stretches. And then finally Hannibal speaks. Will feels chastised.

"I'm afraid of what you could do were I to upset you again or-or you find yourself impulsive... If I were to leave," Will's words are stilted. He'd killed countless men at the Verger estate that likely had nothing to do with their captivity... Is he even free?

* * *

Past the haze of medication and the newness of the sea rolling through Hannibal's senses, he can smell Will's fear. It's almost a palpable sensation upon the air, raw and sour now that Hannibal knows what to look for. While he cannot hear Will's hammering pulse or see the result in his pupils, he can hear his quicker breathing and the scent of anxiety and fear curdling between them. Typically Hannibal enjoys this scent; he had once enjoyed it on Will. Now, looking at him against the headboard, wrapped in bandages as brilliant eyes remain downcast, Hannibal feels only a stirring of bitter anger that sweeps in like a storm.

Once he would have preened over Will's fear, would have been curious how it would make him respond. He had often entertained ideas of simply telling Will who he was simply to see if those lovely pupils would dilate, to know how fast Will's heart would beat were there a _real_ danger in the room. Yet such impulses had more or less vanished once Will had killed Tier. Hannibal had seen him differently then. A monster like his own, alone and fierce. He'd seen the capacity for more than a simple friendship. He'd seen the capacity for an equal, and Will had more than proven himself capable of the same deception within Hannibal the moment he'd scented Freddie Lounds on Will's clothing.

Now the thought of Will being afraid of him - while understandable - merely sparks a bitter frustration. The worst of it is that Hannibal knows he has no one to blame but himself. Will's fear had been muted in the catacombs - or so he suspects. The table for three had sparked this. Or perhaps it had been the Verger estate. Hannibal looks at Will in an unnatural silence; even hazy with drugs and exhaustion, Hannibal's gaze is honed like the scalpels he so lovingly favors. And it is therefore with an open expression that he faces the first thought of Will leaving, and the flicker of something colder and feral is difficult to mask. Hannibal is a very refined man, but the monster does lurk. At least he's aware of the slip, for he draws in a deeper breath, holds it, and then lets it out slowly, undoubtedly striving to calm himself down.

"Then perhaps it is best you do not isolate yourself with me," Hannibal says, and his voice is only just contained. "I would like you to leave." It isn't a suggestion. "Go to your room and sleep. If you do not wish to eat breakfast at the table with us tomorrow morning, I will have Chiyoh bring you something at ten."

While polite, the words are dismissive and tight with bitterness. Hannibal's control is fractured, his manners frayed. Yet despite his supposed fatigue, he makes no move to lay back down. Not with Will still present in the room.

* * *

He'd assumed this was what he wanted - to be with Hannibal and embrace his potential. Will left the shambles of his life behind, searched and rooted through Europe to understand and _see_ and he's here now, next to the very man he's dreamed about. Instead of clarity and relief it's suddenly all wrong again, the wrong fucking fit with no happy ending for them. (He'd never tried on the black leather jacket, but Will knows it wouldn't fit properly. The gloves however...)

He doesn't want to be scared of Hannibal Lecter. While Hannibal has done awful things and is destructive, it's not like Will is innocent. ' _I think I'm scared of you_...' The words had honestly surprised him, but he knew they were the truth as soon as they left his mouth. A bitter pill to take, like the Aspirin he used to dry swallow. Has he been merely hiding behind bravado, claiming to want it all, to be okay - pushing and tempting - while hiding from this piece of truth? He feels like he's been branded with something that Hannibal will forever see.

Hannibal only visibly reacts to the mention of him leaving. Will has the distinct feeling that that won't be in his cards. The reply he gets is cool. It's another dismissal and it stings. He may be afraid, but he'd rather be _with_ the monster than alone and left thinking and wondering (and waiting). Like a scolded child, Will hastily slips off the bed, jostling his shoulder in the process. He hisses out a curse, but says nothing else as he flees with his tail between his legs. He's back to the safety of his room, back alone. He goes to his knapsack without thought and pulls out the familiar leather gloves.

Will goes to the bathroom, flicks on the light and locks the door. He doesn't expect Hannibal, but Chiyoh could possibly have awoken. He slips on the gloves. He shouldn't raise his right arm... Will ignores reason, pushes past the pain, and wraps his gloved hands around his neck. He looks in the mirror and can see Hannibal behind him, like he had been in the catacombs. (His soft hair, the jacket.) Will squeezes. (Hannibal squeezes.) His shoulder throbs in protest, but Will doesn't relent. (Hannibal hadn't stopped. Hannibal had controlled him and held him tightly.) Will can't do any serious damage, but he likes the look of himself in distress. It matches his insides. (He imagines a gentle kiss--) When his hands shakily pull away, he repeats Hannibal's words, ‘N _o, you don't... Not yet_.’ His throat is red and patchy.

He's hard.

After he puts away the gloves and crawls into bed, he thinks about the string. About a noose. He dreams of his firefly monument, the man's eyes opening and the chrysalis cracking. His ravenstag watches next to him, wary and alert. Will feels a sense of dread.

He comes down for breakfast, but only to gather up food and retreat to his bedroom.

* * *

Sleep does not come easily to Hannibal that night. Exhausted as he is, his skin singing with pain difficult to mask, memories of the look on Will's face following Hannibal's dismissal are like venomous barbs jabbing into him when he closes his eyes. He can still hear Will's curse, can still scent his pain, and whenever his mind floats on the line between a quiet surrender into sleep and remaining awake, he hears Will's soft, shameful admission. ' _I think I'm scared of you_ ' and the twist to his gut snatches rest away from his hands.

These are reflections Hannibal doesn't want. Will's fear is acrid and bitter, a sour note on an otherwise masterful dish. Once, he had curiously jabbed and enjoyed the thought of breaking Will Graham down. His madness had been interesting, a new toy to entertain himself with. He'd slid under Will's skin like an IV, had fed him whispers and secrets in silence while messing with his mind, and yet his abuse had not fostered fear. His abuse had fostered _rage_. Will's betrayal had been poetic in return, and Hannibal had not been afraid. Even looking at Will on his kitchen floor, he had merely felt lost, hurt, and overwhelmed by his own frustration. Overwhelmed by how deep he had let the man get.

Yet still Will had reacted with anger. Desperation, perhaps, in the catacombs, but after a reminder of Hannibal's cruelty, of his preference, Will's forgiveness would have slid cleanly through his skin. Hannibal wonders even now just what Will would have left him with. A matching grin, or something much worse? Even so, it had been rage. It had been rage, and then Hannibal had pushed, and now...

Now Will is afraid of him.

Hannibal sleeps fitfully that evening, and when he wakes in the morning to Chiyoh unlocking the door (he had thought to re-lock it, simply to preserve Will's secret) the sheer wave of his frustration stops her in her tracks.

She is exceedingly careful in tending to him, though she says nothing. She changes his bandages and merely hums apology when skin is torn from gauze, for Hannibal tenses but otherwise remains silent. He must look a sight, for when he states he has plans to cook breakfast, Chiyoh's protests are unvoiced. She doesn't argue. Instead she allows Hannibal his distraction and does him the honor of averting her eyes when he needs to stop and regroup.

Not even she can ignore the way Hannibal stills when Will comes down once they're seated. She remains silent and watches as Hannibal's lips pale. A quick look at Will shows something equally detached and while she doesn't know what has happened, it is clear that something has. She watches in silence until Will leaves, and watches the weight settle onto Hannibal's shoulders.

"You found your reflection in the water," she says quietly and doesn't need to look to know that Hannibal is listening. "Elated, you thought to give it a gift. What happened when you gave yourself, Hannibal?"

Hannibal doesn't blink. His expression doesn't so much as shift, but there is much to read in his voice as he answers. "The water rippled and broke the illusion, revealing it for what it was."

"The water will calm again. As is its nature."

"But I will always know that all it takes is a touch to cast ripples through the surface once more."

Chiyoh nods. "Will you fill in the lake?"

"No." Hannibal shakes his head slowly, and Chiyoh is honestly surprised to see the flicker of emotion light behind his eyes like a dying ember before it eclipses itself into nothing. "Perhaps it is merely a reflection, but it is still more than I had hoped. Merely not as much as I expected. He is afraid of me."

"Then for once, he has decided to be intelligent."

Hannibal shoots her a glance but Chiyoh's expression remains firm, immobile. For a long moment they look at each other, one barely controlled, the other nothing but control. In the end Chiyoh is the one to look away first, for she has nothing to prove in holding eye contact. She returns to her plate.

"He showed me your smile. He orchestrated a death. In your childhood home, he _became_ you. You would have been proud." She takes a bite of her breakfast, the savory hint of leek a bite on her tongue. "I know little of what has happened since save the shot to his arm and you carrying him in the snow. In that time, something has changed. Perhaps he is not you, but he is more than your reflection."

Hannibal says nothing to that. He looks at Chiyoh in silence and then returns wordlessly to his food, his mind on the downward cast to Will's eyes, the way he'd shuffled in to get his breakfast and retreated on his own. He already knows he will not seek Will out but to check his injuries. He will not chase a terrified dog. Ultimately it falls on the dog to make its own decision.

' _I'm afraid of what you could do were I to upset you again, or you find yourself impulsive... If I were to leave.'_

Hannibal's jaw sets tightly. Chiyoh - smartly - says nothing.


	4. Tangled messes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I don't think this is a good time to be having this conversation," Hannibal says, tone perfectly sculpting itself into control though he feels very little. "Nor any. I don't want you admitting to anything you wouldn't tell me sober. Red threads and bruises can wait. Just avoid tying your own noose, and do _not_ choke yourself again, Will. Tangled messes can always be untangled. It merely takes work and patience."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (︶▽︶) Things are gettin' good... or at least that's what we think... ♡
> 
> Will is written by merrythoughts ([tumblr](http://merrythought.tumblr.com))  
> Hannibal/Chiyoh written by Dapperscript/reallymisscoffee ([tumblr](http://reallymisscoffee.tumblr.com/))

Breakfast, as most of their meals have been, is delicious. It's certainly not as extravagant as Hannibal _could_ prepare, but it's a hell of a lot better than what Will used to make for himself. Before he'd slunk down to the main floor to pick up his food, Will noticed that he had accidentally bruised his neck from his little choking foray from the night before. Although that hadn't been his intention, it's a nice sight. A familiar sight. He'd made sure to keep his head down low and his back turned to the table. No one had said anything. He doubts he can keep it hidden for long, but Will's not really concerned.

Normally Hannibal comes and removes the gauze and bandages sometime in the morning to allow Will to shower, but today he's impatient. He takes matters into his own hands. Will rips off the gauze from his face, pulling some of the formed scabs off in his haste. He feels a little like Frankenstein, sewn up. Or Humpty-Dumpty put back together again. He doesn't have a nice face now. Two distinct cuts are in the process of forming scar tissue (not that his current actions are helping the situation). Well, his face will match his body. He steps into the shower and he assumes someone will bring him pain pills soon after. He's due for a dose now that he's eaten.

He barely feels the shower, but once he climbs out, Will registers a note of feeling refreshed. Or clean. His shoulder aches more from the choking endeavor and awkward sleeping, but it's still stitched up and doesn't look infected. He dries off and slips on pyjama pants. The slight tenderness to his neck distracts him a little from his growing restlessness. He's essentially waiting to be attended to and he hates it (but not as much as he hates being afraid of what Hannibal is capable of).

It's Chiyoh that comes to his door and knocks. Will mutters a thanks for the two pills and glass of water she hands him. He pretends to ignore the sight of her eyes widening at the glimpse to his neck. Thankfully, she's too polite to say anything. He can tell that she believes it's Hannibal who's done this. The thought amuses him.

* * *

It is on Hannibal's request that Chiyoh is the one to bring Will his medication. While she disapproves of the avoidance, she is not yet willing to insist when Hannibal is barely holding himself together. There is a weight in his eyes that Chiyoh doesn't enjoy and an aching wistfulness that seems out of place considering the extent of the injuries she has personally seen to. Hannibal doesn't thank her, nor does she expect him to. She merely leaves him to his coffee and walks the water and medication to Will's door, and when his door opens and he accepts the offering, she is dismissive, not paying attention. That is, she affords him his privacy until she sees Will's throat. There are deep bruises in the shape of fingers lining his throat and the sight draws her up short.

She may not like Will Graham, but this is behavior she cannot openly tolerate, not considering how cowed Will had looked this morning and how upset Hannibal had been. She frowns deeply and excuses herself, and when she returns to the kitchen, she's already run through a dozen possible outcomes of this conversation. When she sees Hannibal, she has no plans on what to say.

"When you claimed to have dropped pieces of yourself into your reflection, you did not explain that the ripples saw fit to linger, Hannibal," she says plainly, not an accusation, but not pleased.

He must read that in her voice, for there is a small frown etched into his forehead as he looks up. "What do you mean?"

"You cannot claim remorse that you have scared him given the gifts you have left him with."

Hannibal's expression hardens ever so slightly. It's like granite being smoothed over by water, making everything stand out clear. "You saw the extent of his injuries when I brought him here. Why sit upon your protests until now?"

"Those were injuries from before you lifted your broken shadow into your arms and attempted to meld with him. The new ones--"

" _What_ new ones?"

Hannibal's reply cuts Chiyoh off, and for a moment she looks surprised. Hannibal is not a man to so rudely interrupt, and for the first time since she'd seen Will's throat, she gives pause. Hannibal has never been a man to be visibly emotive, and she is aware he's an excellent actor. The sharpness in his eyes now, the flicker of something akin to alarm? She doesn't think that it’s faked, and she believes suddenly that Hannibal had not been made aware of these new injuries. She stills.

"His throat is lurid," she says finally, after a pause. "Bruises in the span of a hand. I assumed..." Chiyoh does not often feel ashamed, but the look Hannibal sends her then is enough to make her duck her head. Hannibal stands then and she immediately takes a step to the side. "You have my apologies."

"They're unnecessary," Hannibal says. "Please give us some time. I will call for you if I need you."

With his limp masked as much as it can be, Hannibal turns and abandons the rest of his breakfast. He makes haste to Will's door and - with the night before lingering in his mind - Hannibal makes himself knock. It's enough to announce his presence but he doesn't wait for Will to answer the door before he opens it himself and steps in. Immediately his eyes seek out the bruises in question and Hannibal's lips pull down into a tight frown. He gestures to the space in front of him, looking perhaps more annoyed when he sees that Will's gauze has been removed.

"Come here and let me look at you. What were you thinking?"

* * *

The glass is half-empty on his bedside table. Pills swallowed, Will is lingering by the window, gazing at the water while thinking of Chiyoh's words about flying. If Hannibal is his bluff, he won't be spreading his wings and jumping, for the noose around his neck is also a chain. Will saw the flicker of possessiveness in Hannibal when he'd mentioned leaving. There will be no leaving for him, but unlike Chiyoh's former prisoner, he will be treated well. Decently. (But tolerated by Chiyoh.) Hannibal will provide for him... and then what? He'll cross his fingers that he'll remain interesting and worthy of being kept alive? He'll hope he can get over his fucking trauma and fear?

His knapsack is on his bed. The leather gloves folded within the coat. Thus far he's resisted sleeping with the jacket, but Will is starting to wonder _why_. Hannibal isn't going to touch him other than playing doctor -- or at least is in no rush to. They needed time to heal. Or some bullshit like that.

A knock interrupts his musings and Will is expecting Chiyoh so he turns around to ready himself and tell her that she can enter, but the door opens and it's Hannibal.

And Hannibal enters uninvited (which is a first). He is obviously displeased as he takes in the bruises and then the lack of gauze covering Will's wounds. Will is immediately on edge, but his eyes glint at the oncoming conflict. (He feels a sort of anticipatory excitement about it.) He stands his ground and does not present himself for inspection in front of Hannibal. If Hannibal wants to look at him, Hannibal can come to him.

"I was thinking if you won't touch me, I'll touch myself. It's a thing I do. I slip on the gloves you left me and squeeze," Will explains, voice tight. He edges closer to the bluff (he edges closer to Hannibal).

* * *

The marks on Will's throat are deep and dark. They're not as violent as they had undoubtedly been the day after Hannibal had left him in the catacombs, but for a man so obviously injured, that Will's bruises are a dark blue-black-purple means he'd injured himself with strength. Hannibal's expression is set in displeasure as he looks at the marks in question and at the haphazardly-healing gashes on Will's face. He's a mess, a reckless, spiraling man, and Hannibal doesn't know why he expects his command to be followed but he's not surprised when it's not. Instead Will stares him down, defiant, standing his ground. His eyes are aflame with the note of confrontation and Hannibal eyes the half-empty glass on his bedside table. He'd taken the medication then. They have some time before Will is drugged again.

So in that time, Hannibal relents. He feels no shame in bowing to Will's recklessness and while Will's _fear_ is a constant reminder to him, Hannibal's anger has eclipsed his concern. He stalks over to Will, crossing the distance between them so quickly that his limp is almost invisible. There's no obvious pain in his expression as he reaches out, his hand fixing itself to the line of Will's jaw and chin as he delicately pinches and forces Will's chin up. The bruises are undoubtedly in the shape of Will's hands, deeper along the seam of the gloves Will has apparently kept. The knowledge does not shock him, but it does surprise him.

"No more," Hannibal says immediately, and the curl of a thinly-veiled threat is in his voice. Whether his control is thin due to exhaustion, the night before, or simple pain, Hannibal's mask is not as neatly-seated as it usually is. "You are not to do that to yourself anymore. You could do irreparable damage to your arteries and your trachea if not careful. I'll not have you killing yourself trying to chase a memory." Hannibal's voice is sharp, serrated like an awkward blade, and he turns Will's head to the side so that he can assess the depth of the bruises. They're beautiful, but they are not _his._ More than that is merely the torn scabs, the faint hint of blood remaining.

"I told you to wait to let me remove the gauze as well. You've ripped your scabs; it will take longer to heal now."

* * *

Bruises change color, they fade, and then in a matter of weeks, all traces are gone of an altercation ever having taken place. Gideon had made reference to the Ripper being like smoke, and Will believes that more than ever now. Hannibal is corporeal, he's standing right there, but still Will feels like he's a ghost story -- like he could slip away if Will were to blink at the wrong time. He may have brought up the idea of leaving, but it's far more unbearable to think of Hannibal vanishing _again_.

It's now or never, isn't it? They wouldn't be meeting beneath chapels or on front of a Botticelli again. How many chances do people like them get? (At the very least they're the anti-heroes or antagonists. To get a third chance is highly unlikely.)

It's now or never for them, for this tangled romance that's never even really took off. Would it ever? Will remains where he is and waits to see if Hannibal will acquiesce and come over.

Hannibal does. Will feels a flare of stupid victory followed by a pang of apprehension as Hannibal approaches. (He's alive.) Will is effectively treated like a misbehaving child, Hannibal taking his chin and tilting his head up. Will doesn't resist. (Maybe he likes having Hannibal's eyes surveying the damage; maybe he likes the attention.) The threat gets his blood pumping faster. Will wonders idly how many hearts Hannibal has eaten and if Hannibal would have ate his after feasting on his brain. There's a dual sensation of dread and arousal present at the thought. Will licks his lips and his eyes look at Hannibal's own neck -- unmarked and waiting. Will doesn't know if he will listen. It almost seems like the gloves were left for that purpose. Chasing memories, chasing Hannibal. What would Hannibal do if he were to repeat the action...?

"I like doing it," Will retorts. "And if I don't heal, you can continue playing doctor - at least until you grow tired of it or me." He thinks he sounds composed, but there's a level of stress present in his voice. Will shuffles a little closer, trying to prove to himself that he's not spineless when it comes to Hannibal Lecter.

* * *

Will Graham is not a stable man. There's a wildness in his eyes that looks almost manic when Hannibal steps over and begins to assess the damage done. Will's throat is dark and bruised, broken capillaries sending their cascade of color through living flesh. Like this, Hannibal can judge the size of Will's hands perfectly, knows without needing to look that the gloves are a near-perfect fit. The bruises truly are stunning but Hannibal doesn't like the underlying issue here. Will's expression is defiant and reckless and Hannibal knows before Will even says as much that he has no plans on stopping. Anger burns hot in Hannibal's chest but he believes he has a decent handle on it. Will already fears him. He's merely too reckless to listen to that fear. It's Hannibal's job to monitor it for the both of them.

But then Will mentions that Hannibal will one day tire of him, and as composed as his voice sounds, Hannibal still hears the stress and desperation underlying. The anger spikes louder and Hannibal's jaw clenches tight. So when Will steps in closer, enough to bring them almost painfully close - closer even than they had been before Hannibal had cut cleanly through Will's abdomen so many months ago - Hannibal's grip on his chin tightens enough that it likely hurts. He wonders vaguely if this is his attempt to make more bruises. There's no guarantee.

"Reckless and impertinent as always," Hannibal says tightly.

He takes a full step forward, bold, and he knows that his single step will shove Will back a few, further towards his bed. Hannibal's jaw is tight with displeasure as he lifts his free hand and touches a finger to the bruise undoubtedly made by Will's index finger.

"I don't care if you like doing it, Will. You could have seriously injured yourself and I would not have known. Had the heel of your hand settled here," he says, and moves his own hand in a span against Will's throat, the heel resting against Will's skin, "and had you squeezed, you could have fractured your hyoid bone. Had your fingers been closer -" he demonstrates "-you could have restricted flow to the carotid artery _and_ the jugular, effectively risking a stroke. I will _not_ have you killing yourself simply because you're feeling reckless."

* * *

Will has more experiences of Hannibal _leaving_ him than Hannibal choosing to stay. Why shouldn't he assume Hannibal may tire of him? He'd been so damn certain in the catacombs that they would be together, but he was ultimately deemed unworthy - unfit - and left crumpled on the floor with parting gifts. Will feels like an idiot thinking back to how desperate he'd been to offer a fucking _blowjob_ \- an act of sexual submission - to appeal to Hannibal. He wouldn't be doing that again.

"Ow," he mutters when Hannibal's hold on his chin tightens. Will makes no effort to try and get away. Reckless? Sure. Impertinent? When it came to dealing with Hannibal, yes. He doesn't want to shuffle backward, but it happens unconsciously as Hannibal draws nearer. Somehow it's entirely different when _Hannibal_ moves closer to him. Hannibal is the ultimate predator is he not? Will's not quite certain what he is right now. He'd been prey before - essentially a meat product - but Hannibal claimed to not be interested in eating him now. Did one assurance simply wipe the slate clean? Is that what Hannibal _expected_? (Or hoped for?) Fuck. Will wishes he'd never shared the realization, he wishes his own feelings would have stayed confused and unrealized.

He's effectively given an educational lecture while Hannibal's fingers first touch him, pointing out his hyoid bone before wrapping around his neck and it's this that gets Will excited. He proves his recklessness again and pushes into the touch - all eagerness and idiocy - because he _is_ afraid of Hannibal and yet he can't help but want to court the thought of Hannibal choking him. Will licks his lips and swallows, feeling his throat contract against Hannibal's fingers.

"But you know how to do it properly?" Will asks, his eyes daring Hannibal. He's hard and he doesn't care what this says about him. If he can live jumping impulse to impulse, maybe he won't have to deal with the elephant in the room.

* * *

Perhaps Will isn't about to throw himself off of any cliffsides but the thought Hannibal had entertained the night before about Will throwing himself from a different kind of bluff is still possible. Anger twists hot in his chest as he examines the bruising on Will's throat, the proof of recklessness that Hannibal cannot fully contain. Will is afraid of him. Fear tends to make people reckless but not in this fashion. Will's fear isn't driving him _away_ from danger. It's driving him towards it, towards Hannibal. Experience tells Hannibal to withdraw, to give Will space to deal with the fear he's experienced. He's a man who has been through great bursts of trauma the last few weeks and he's not had time to process it. All Hannibal had been intending by giving Will space had been an attempt to process his trauma. Trust Will to be completely audacious.

For Will has no desire to lose contact, to give himself space. Hannibal watches Will's pupils blow wide when his hand closes over the span of his throat and the sudden dizzying scent of arousal is much more potent than any of the fine wines Hannibal is accustomed to. It gives Hannibal brief pause, throws his anger half into confusion and makes his grip relax only for a moment before the quick flick of Will's tongue draws his attention. Then Will moves into the touch and Hannibal almost steps back, almost lets go, but perhaps Will's recklessness is contagious because instead of letting go, Hannibal hesitates for only a moment and then reaffirms his hold.

"I didn't kill you in the catacombs," Hannibal replies in lieu of a true answer. Will already knows he can do it properly. Hannibal knows what Will is trying to imply by asking and as ridiculous a notion as this is, as reckless as it is, Will's gaze is all daring and hunger. Just when Hannibal believes he can predict this man, Will decides to prove him wrong. It's maddening.

"What is this, Will?" Hannibal asks lowly, his hand pressing closer to Will's throat, just enough to feel. " _Why_ do you like doing this to yourself? What do you hope to gain?"

* * *

Will knows _this_ isn't what Hannibal is expecting to happen. He feels the hand around his throat relax a moment in confusion. Hannibal knows he's afraid and assumes Will should want to _avoid_ the subject of his distress. To Will, nothing sounds worse than that. If Hannibal is near him, Will can hopefully have a chance at reading him and ensure that Hannibal has no designs on sampling him. He's never been exceptional at reading Hannibal -- or perhaps he simply hasn't been willing or brave enough. Either way, Will would rather keep il Mostro in his sight than be left to wonder what Hannibal is up to.

Except _this_ is more than keeping Hannibal nearby. This is Will getting up into Hannibal's space and flirting with danger. But in a way, this _is_ still very familiar to Will. Hannibal had come into his life during a tumultuous time. Crime scene after crime scene, killer after killer, and Hannibal had been there for him as a nonjudgmental entity that emitted calmness and support. And then after the whole incarceration bit, they'd been standing on more even ground (Will could fucking _see_ ) and violence had remained central to their relationship; it's what they fucking rotated around... Their version of reciprocity, thoughts of slitting Hannibal's throat, the desire to pull the trigger, the meddling with the Verger's, and finally everything had exploded in a single evening. Yes, they'd always existed in a system of chaos. So, why should Will expect any different _now?_ Reunited nearly a year later and Hannibal had choked him to the point of losing consciousness. And then thought to eat him weeks later.

Nevertheless, they're good questions. When Hannibal tightens his hold Will groans, heat flooding into his body, his heart beating quicker. Does he even know what this is? What he's hoping to gain? No. Not really. He can only think of the red string (chain, leash, noose, who knew?)

"Don't we have a red thread binding us together?" Will asks and his uninjured arm reaches out, his hand coming to mirror the correct position as he wraps his fingers around Hannibal's own neck.

* * *

It isn't an answer, but then, can Hannibal ever hope to have Will give him a legitimate answer? Can either of them afford to give real answers knowing who and what they are? Hannibal's jaw sets plainly, seen primarily in the way the deep red scabs on his face from Jack's altercation twitch in response. He's silent for a moment as the groan vibrates to life under his hand and he can feel Will's pulse pick up under his palm. Yet despite this, he is still left surprised when Will reaches out and his hand settles on Hannibal's throat in return.

' _With my hands...'_ Will had said once, speaking of intimacy, of killing Hannibal with his hands, and the memory sparks an odd wistfulness through him as Hannibal looks impassively at Will. He doesn't flinch, doesn't move back. He's weak but they both are, and he has a hand on Will's throat as well. A standoff of sorts, perhaps, but a confusing one. Even now he has no idea how to predict this man or what Will _wants_. Hannibal simply wets his lips and tilts his chin up almost imperceptibly. The swell of his throat presses into Will's palm like a brand of its own.

"The red thread of fate," Hannibal says quietly, his tone light, almost casual despite the threat of Will's hand at his throat. "Originating in Chinese legend. The red thread of fate around the ankle - the little finger in Japan and Korea - connecting two people destined to meet. Often lovers." Hannibal glances at Will, breathing in the scent that is his arousal, and then releases the breath quietly, like simply settling it back. He remembers what Will had told him - wanting it all - but circumstances have changed. Or... have they? With Will Graham, Hannibal is uncertain. "The two people connected by the red thread are destined to be lovers regardless of outside influence, time, and circumstance. It may bend, it may tangle, but it will never break. A soulmate."

* * *

With his left hand, it's fairly unlikely that he _could_ actually hurt Hannibal. From observation, Will knows Hannibal's lower leg is injured and something severe has happened to or on his back, but Hannibal's grip is much steadier than Will's own. If Will wanted an edge or to pose any great threat, he would have to go for those vulnerable places. But there's no reason for Will to _want_ to attack Hannibal. An eye for an eye had to end eventually and he honestly doesn't want to risk Chiyoh's wrath.

Hannibal's skin is warm, there's the desire to squeeze and know it more intimately, but Will holds himself back. That Hannibal knows what he's referring to is no surprise. Hannibal is more cultured than him anyway. Will listens and Hannibal sounds much more awake now than the night before. There's less of the accent present and more lightness to the quality of Hannibal's voice. (He has the bizarre thought that Hannibal reciting a story or reading to him would be rather nice...) Will sways a little and feels the oncoming haze of medication pull at him, the ache in his shoulder lessening. He's still buzzing with arousal for some stupid reason, and he has the disparaging thought that he probably should whack off soon.

"We're a tangled mess," Will murmurs and his hand relaxes, sliding up Hannibal's defined jaw and cupping an unshaven cheek (which is odd, but grooming habits must change when one is injured). It feels strange to be doing something so gentle and frankly affectionate, but it also feels _right._ (Maybe his hand can fit here?) Will's eyes focus on the scabs on Hannibal's face for a moment before looking down, because he's pretty sure Hannibal isn't going to appreciate or let him rip them off so they can match. _Reckless_ , _impertinent_...

"I still want you, despite that - despite what I said last night." Will hastily pulls his hand away, aware of that sick uncomfortable feeling of vulnerability.

* * *

Will sways and Hannibal's free hand immediately comes to his uninjured shoulder in order to steady him. It tugs at the burn at his back but aside from the flicker of pain, Hannibal cares very little. His gaze is sharp, vague conversation of the red thread fading into a concern that is short-lived. It takes a moment for Hannibal to realize that Will’s unsteadiness is likely stemming from the medication. Immediately common sense dictates that he needs to end this conversation. Just as he'd refused to allow Will to debase himself while achingly vulnerable and desperate in the catacombs, he has no desire to push an aggressive or charged conversation when Will is under the influence. Regardless of his tolerance, it isn't proper.

He wishes to chase this topic, to dig deeply into the root behind Will's desire to hurt himself. Is it truly just that the sensation of being choked that had aroused him, or is there more to it? Hannibal suspects that there is _much_ more, but he's not so crass as to try and pull admissions from this man with drugs lowering his inhibitions. It will only get worse as the medication kicks in and Hannibal's frown likely makes that obvious. Even so, he is not expecting the way Will's hand slides up. It skims past his throat and instead moves to cup his jaw, and Hannibal goes very still. A man going quiet as a bird lands upon his shoulder, or perhaps as a wolf slowly circles his legs. He's uncertain which one Will is right now. His touch is tender, but Hannibal's tenderness has often heralded destruction. He waits.

Will's touch holds a great many promises, though. Possibilities over what _could_ have been. It's gentle, almost exploratory, and Hannibal hasn't the heart to draw away. Even now, after so much duality, reciprocity and bitterness poisoning the waters between them, he aches for Will Graham.

Will drawing his hand away is almost physically painful, but Hannibal bears it like he bears his injuries: quietly and without complaint. Will's admission, however... that is another matter altogether. It sparks something wistful and irritated at the same time, Hannibal's expression pinching ever so slightly that Will likely doesn’t notice. He checks that Will is steady and then slowly draws both of his hands away. The bruise on Will's throat is not in the shape of Hannibal's hand, and the knowledge is upsetting.

"I don't think this is a good time to be having this conversation," Hannibal says, tone perfectly sculpting itself into control though he feels very little. "Nor any. I don't want you admitting to anything you wouldn't tell me sober. Red threads and bruises can wait. Just avoid tying your own noose, and do _not_ choke yourself again, Will. Tangled messes can always be untangled. It merely takes work and patience."

* * *

Once again it's him showing Hannibal his cards, opening up - the equivalent of lifting his shirt again. But it doesn't end well and Will interprets Hannibal's words and pulling away as another rejection of sorts. He's not interested in _rescheduling_ for a more appropriate time. This wasn't about convenience, like making a fucking appointment. Bitterness and frustration rush into him in equal measure and his jaw clenches. There's a fucking great depth of _hurt_ , but the former two feelings overpower it and Will is grateful. He can handle being angry right now, but being hurt? No thank you. He'll bury that shit away for later.

He knows Hannibal is trying to be smart. Will can see the logic (he knows he's going to start feeling a little loopy soon), but he's tired of being shuffled away, of having to wait to really figure things out, of waiting for... For what? For _them_ to start? For the fuse to be lit? For anything other than the frequent periods of rest, of aches and pains and Chiyoh's fucking distrustful looks. He's tired of Hannibal pretending to _not_ be in pain when he's around too. What must Will do to not allow Hannibal to create any more slack on their thread?

"Fuck off if you honestly believe that I'm comprised and haven't been thinking of this stuff - of you and I - nearly all the time," Will hisses and his head jerks up, glaring at Hannibal.

"Go run away, Hannibal." Will makes a shoo'ing motion with his hand.

* * *

It's clear that Will isn't going to be very receptive to this idea from the moment it leaves Hannibal's lips, but there is very little that he can do right now to change things. He cannot magically influence Will into being sober again, nor does he want to. Will is suffering from numerous gashes and a rather solid gunshot wound and he has not had the mindfulness training that Hannibal has. Nor does he have Hannibal's pain tolerance. As much as this infuriates him, Will needs rest and to go some time without suffering, particularly if he's already in pain. It is for this reason that Hannibal hardly bats an eye when Will rounds on him and lashes out verbally. Fearful animals - particularly those in pain - are the most dangerous by far.

It doesn't make the admission any easier to deal with, nor the intentional baiting. Hannibal's lips turn down in an obvious frown and when Will reaches over with his hand to _shoo_ him away, Hannibal reaches out and catches Will's wrist. Not even he knows why he does it but he is not a man to handle such a rude dismissal with the best of attitudes. Hannibal's jaw is tight when he glares at Will and a tense silence follows as he considers this reckless man.

"For a man who claims to be afraid of me, you delight in antagonizing," Hannibal says calmly. "Tell me, Will. Were you to answer a question you wished to keep secret simply due to the medication lowering your inhibitions, do you not believe you would resent me for taking advantage of your condition later? I am not attempting to _run away._ I am attempting to respect boundaries you still have. You _fear_ me and I have done much to foster that. You are wholly reliant on me for food, shelter, clothing, comforts, and companionship. It is a breeding ground for Stockholm Syndrome. The least I can afford you is dominion over your own mind."

Hannibal draws in a deeper breath, holds it, and then lets it out. His grip on Will's wrist tightens only for a second before he brings it to his lips to press a fleeting kiss over his knuckles. "I will tell you this. I desire you. _My_ admissions are not taking advantage of you, and perhaps you deserve to know. I don't _wish_ to leave, but I should. I doubt you would be comfortable were I to remain. You're very aware of what I am capable of, Will."

* * *

When his wrist is caught Will instinctively tries to pull away with a displeased grunt. He doesn't try too hard because he knows Hannibal is stronger. Is he a little worried? Yeah, but he's fairly certain Hannibal is just miffed at the dismissive gesture. Surely he's not going to be wrestled down and then wake up tied to a chair with himself on the menu... (He hopes.)

For a moment they're simply glaring at each other and Will recalls something his father told him once while fixing a motor: ' _You know you love 'em if you would rather be pissed off and_ together _than pissed off and apart.'_ Will understands the sentiment now. At the time he'd wanted to ask if that's how his father had felt about his mother, but a twelve-year-old Will Graham knew better than to bring her up. He'd nodded at the time and refocused his attention back on the task. (It was better to be useful than ask questions.)

Of course Hannibal brings up valid points. Will would probably be upset if he said something he preferred to keep to himself while high on the drugs, but he'd _get_ _over it_. That's what people did - that's what couples did, right? Get mad, yell, get over it, but be _together_ at least. The whole Stockholm Syndrome mention irks Will. He's never liked relying on anyone, but he wants this man - he _wants_ to be here - so that's the way it has to be. He's not some weak willed victim...

He's about to launch into a protest when Hannibal kisses his knuckles. It's a fleeting touch and Will's mouth closes and he lets Hannibal finish. Will's own expression relaxes into something more akin to discomfort than anger by the time Hannibal finishes. Will's been placated by three simple words: _'I desire you.'_ It should probably bother him how much those words mean to him especially seeing how Hannibal follows it up with _‘ You're very aware of what I am capable of…’_

"I don't like being away from you," Will mutters and then a yawn slips out. It's an uncomfortable admission; it screams of weakness and need, but Will doesn't care about pride at the moment. It's probably the drugs. They're good drugs. He feels looser, pain dulled and further from his mind.

"I'd rather have you around than not... Please?"

* * *

It's a bold action, one that he will likely regret at a later date, but Hannibal doesn't regret kissing Will's knuckles _now_. He watches idly as Will's mouth closes from a protest that had undoubtedly been building and then something complicated flickers behind Will's eyes before he relaxes. The drugs are likely kicking in now but it's more than that. Perhaps that soft admission - that Hannibal desires him - had really made that much difference. Hannibal looks at Will in silence, caught in his own mind just for a moment, as this man is such an odd, thrilling, complicated creature even now. In all his years, Hannibal doubts he will ever be able to properly predict Will Graham.

Of everything, it's Will's honesty that finally breaks through. The both of them are angry, though Will's anger has been eased with Hannibal's admission and Hannibal's has been redirected into patience. Yet despite that anger lingering, listening to Will's murmured comment (' _I don't like being away from you')_ suddenly makes the rest of this interaction make sense. After the last few months, looking at it from the other side of the equation, Hannibal can see how his patience might be misconstrued as rejection. He'd choked Will out in the catacombs following a rather intimate action - to save him, to shock him back into his right mind - but it had likely been seen as a rejection. Then each conversation at the bluff - and the conversation the night before... Hannibal resists a wince but only just. No wonder Will's anger has flared so much.

While the fight doesn't leave him - his opinions have not changed - there is no harm in his presence. It isn't Will spilling secrets, and with how isolated a man Will Graham has always been, it makes sense that he'd react favorably to touch. Perhaps it will even calm his mind.

Hannibal looks Will over one final time and then sighs, nodding. "Would you like me to stay with you, Will? While you rest." It should be obvious, but he wishes to know. "I would like to redress your wounds if you'd allow me to." He looks over the deep gash in Will's forehead with a twist of something nearing revulsion. It would be as much for Hannibal's sake as it would be for Will's.

* * *

Will's quite used to being alone, or at least only in the company of his dogs. He's never managed a steady relationship, so the idea that he actually finds himself longing for Hannibal's company is setting something of a precedent in his life. In their earlier interactions, Hannibal's tolerance and patience had been a surprise to him. Will really hadn't planned on ever making nice with his unofficial psychiatrist. Lecter had originally come across as an overdressed dandy and Will had been very aware of the class difference between them. But Hannibal hadn't ever made him feel lesser. Hannibal had actually fucking won him over. But their tale of friendship is an ugly one -- manipulation, betrayal and broken hearts. A tangled mess, indeed...

He misses his dogs. He misses burying his head in Winston's fur and scratching behind his ears. He misses playing with the exuberant Buster. He misses the simple joy of seeing them all running around outside. It'd been the only family that made sense to him. Simple. His life had been simple at one point, or at least _simpler_. Will doesn't think much is going to be simple _now_. They truly _are_ a tangled mess. Against all reason, he loves Hannibal Lecter. Loves him because even though he might be angry and afraid, Will would rather have Hannibal around. (He may be more afraid of _them,_ of what Hannibal's shadow brings out in him...)

Will nods at the first question but then he's soon shaking his head at the mention of re-bandaging his injuries. He doesn't want Hannibal to go, even if it would only be a for a handful of minutes.

"Do it later, after I pass out. I'm consenting now," Will says and he turns toward the bed and steps toward it. Hannibal is still holding onto his wrist so Will effectively pulls him (a string, a thread, a leash, a chain, a hand- it doesn't matter). "You don't have to look at my face," Will adds on. He's seen Hannibal's expression when faced with the cut on his forehead. He'll turn away if he must.

* * *

Hannibal's protest is on the tip of his tongue when Will shakes his head. Will's injuries need to be properly bandaged again and checked for signs of infection. He doubts that Will has suffered any torn stitches or infection but ripping gauze free without checking it is a recipe for irritation. Yet before he can voice the protest, Will clarifies that he wants Hannibal to check his injuries _later_. Hannibal frowns but this is a compromise he can accept. So he nods as Will turns towards the bed and while he does hesitate in seeing Will's destination (the chair is on the other side of the bed) it immediately becomes apparent that Will wishes him to stay on the bed itself.

Keeping his own injuries in mind, Hannibal is very aware that the accepted go-to will not work. Perhaps Will merely wishes his presence, to have him lean up against the headboard and watch over him while he sleeps. Even as he considers it, he doubts it. Will is not in a distant mood right now (but given the fact that it is _Hannibal_ who has yet to release his hold on Will's wrist, he's just as guilty). He's just considering other positioning when Will adds on his final comment and... of course he's noticed. Hannibal frowns mildly, caught. He cannot deny that Will's injury is difficult to look at, but he has never been a man to eclipse himself from his problems knowingly.

"I have spent rather a long time not looking at your face, Will. I wish to change that." He leaves no room for doubts as he watches Will climb onto the bed. After a moment, Hannibal finally releases Will's wrist so that he can properly move without risk to his shoulder. Hannibal gingerly eases himself down onto the bed but even the act of twisting his back is painful. His next exhale is slightly tight before he gets a handle on it. Given what Will wishes him to do, there's really nothing for it. Hannibal glances over at him, at the way his eyes are already somewhat unfocused from the medication, and he frowns.

"I could lay on my back if you wish, but it would be... medically inadvisable due to injuries received at the farm. What do you wish me to do, Will?"

* * *

Will finds himself crawling back on the bed. It feels like he spends far too much time laying around and napping but he's never tolerated analgesics well. Alcohol may not be that efficient with actual pain management, but at least he doesn't get so loopy and tired. But the pills are kicking the pain's ass at least. A proper throwdown and everything. Will feels a dumb smile appear on his face at Hannibal's comment about wanting to see _his_ face (stop it, stupid, not that important--). Will looks down and now that he has use of his good hand, he pulls back the blankets and gets under them.

_'What do you wish me to do...'_

"Geez, your oddball phrasing, Hannibal," Will chuckles under his breath. The comment is more for himself. The medicine is definitely kicking in, his eyelids feel heavy, and the pain further and further away. His filter is rapidly lessening as evidenced by Will's last observation. He looks back over at Hannibal, who's joined him on the bed, and Will tries to seriously consider the question of positions. If Hannibal wants to see his face, they'll have to be facing each other, but be on their sides. Because of his fucking shoulder. Because of whatever is on Hannibal's back. (He really needs to investigate. Likely sooner rather than later.) Will settles on his left side.

"Lay on your side facing me," Will suggests. He purposefully shifts closer to the middle of the bed, proving the point that he doesn’t wish there to be a great deal of distance between them.

* * *

It is immediately apparent to Hannibal that this is an important moment. If Will has been taking his caution as rejection, then he knows he needs to treat this new proximity with care. He watches as Will climbs onto the bed and gets himself properly situated, moving to the back of the mattress so that he can lay down on his left side and not risk injuring his shoulder. Hannibal can't fault him this and so he takes great care in merely waiting for Will to get comfortable before he so much as attempts to do the same.

There is no comfortable position for his type of injury. Movement itself is a curse, every twitch of his muscles brings shooting pain. Still, when Will makes his suggestion after a moment of thought (and a rather odd comment) Hannibal considers his own abilities and then nods. Slowly, gingerly, he eases himself down. Somehow he feels like showing Will that he is also in pain, or that he _can_ be affected might help. He takes a moment to lay down on his right side, facing Will, and while the pressure pinches the brand upon his back, there isn't a position that will do any better. Even laying on his stomach can trigger a reaction, so Hannibal merely turns his focus away from the burn and instead looks over at Will.

It is... markedly different to lay down and see Will doing the same. A small thrill creeps its way insidiously up Hannibal's spine, and regardless of Will's injuries - of his shoulder that Hannibal wishes to check and the visible stitching along his jaw and forehead - Will Graham's presence feels like an absolute gift. Hannibal merely looks at him in silence and after a moment he relents. With one hand Hannibal reaches out and just gently touches Will's arm, away from his shoulder. It's hardly worthy of being considered a poignant touch, but for them, any contact without violence can be important.

"Will this do?"

* * *

They're in a bed again, but last time - the night previously - Will had been sitting up. Now they're both laying down facing each other, not in darkness, for it's the morning and the blinds aren't drawn because Will rather likes looking out at the ocean. Yes, almost two weeks ago Hannibal was going to eat him. Or a part of him. (Hopefully more than just his brain because Will doesn't like the idea that his brain was the only delicious thing about him, okay?) Even slipping into the haze of the drugs, Will can tell Hannibal is in pain. He knows he wants Hannibal to tell him about the injuries sustained, but Will is starting to think that that isn't going to ever happen. He'll have to ask. Or demand? ...He'll have to do something. But not right now.

At least he's not sporting a boner anymore. That's an upside of getting angry and the meds hitting him. There's still an undercurrent of arousal because it's fucking Hannibal. Hannibal is close, and even if there's unease and, alright, some fear concerning Hannibal, apparently Will’s fucked up enough to find that exciting on some level. He’s never claimed to be normal.

"Will says yes," he murmurs. It's a dumb thing to say, but it's out. He'll get away with it too. Will squirms nearer yet, strings pulling him closer, each one tied to a limb. He's a puppet and the very _idea_ of Hannibal yanks him around. As long as he doesn't get eaten by a whale or join the circus... There's little space between them now, Will is on the edge of his pillow, blinking sluggishly at Hannibal.

"Mason said I had a nice face... You think I have a nice face? Cuts and all? They'll scar too... Franken-Will."

* * *

It is immediately apparent that the drugs have started to hit Will's system with a vengeance. Hannibal is quiet as he watches Will's reaction, as he watches Will settle and then begin to edge closer. It's an awkward squirm along the sheets but he says nothing, merely observing as Will inches himself along to close some of the distance between them. The movement does its part to jostle Hannibal's back ever so slightly, but he puts himself above the pain and instead listens to Will's odd diction as the drugs slide deeper into his bloodstream.

By the time Will settles, there's very little space left between them. Hannibal carefully moves his hand back down to the bed, though he keeps it close. This close, Hannibal can see Will's face, from the messy curls of his hair to the sparse stubble across the cut of an elegant jawline. He has the realization that were Will to fully shave one day, he'd likely be _pretty_ , and that Will's decision to grow a beard is likely to keep that from happening. Despite the exhaustion written into Will's face, the bags under his eyes and the numerous injuries, the answer to Will's sudden question is immediately apparent. Hannibal doesn't hesitate in answering, even after Will's 'Franken-Will' tangent.

"Yes, I do. Cuts and all. You have always had very striking features. They look deceptively soft when the reality is strength."

Bold though careful, Hannibal slides his hand up again. He does nothing more than gently touch Will's jawline with the tips of his fingers, feeling the rough stubble that doesn't seem to wish to grow into a full beard even now.

"While you are not physically Frankenstein's monster, perhaps there could be an argument for your alignment. Joseph Carroll once said that Frankenstein's monster occupies 'a border territory between the characteristics that typically define protagonists and antagonists'. Morally grey. Fitting, in a sense," Hannibal muses as he traces Will's features with his gaze, locking the differences away even now, amending his mental image of Will Graham.

* * *

Will knows he's likely going to say something stupid (if he hasn't done so already). Even knowing that, Will doesn't want to close his eyes and sleep. He doesn't want stop talking because if he does that, maybe he'll be back on the train staring up and seeing Chiyoh impaled by antlers -- maybe he'll be on a boat, completely alone but talking to an Abigail to get by -- maybe he'll be back on the Lecter estate walking amidst gravestones and trying to remind himself that his name's _not_ actually on one.

Will tries to focus on Hannibal's face, eyelids feeling heavy, but he forces them to stay open. He's never given much thought to Hannibal's looks before - or any man's, really - but Hannibal is actually attractive in an exotic way. Be that as it may, the face looking at him still feels familiar. (It's a face he wants to keep on seeing.) When Hannibal replies saying that he _does_ like his face - cuts and all - Will can feel his lips form into a dumb smile. He opens his mouth to say that Hannibal _also_ has a nice face, but Hannibal's fingers reach out and graze across his jawline and Will promptly forgets what he was going to say. It was probably silly anyway.

Hannibal has more to say, of course and Will tries his best to follow along. He doesn't really clue into what Hannibal is getting at until the end.

"Good and evil and all the shades of grey in between," Will murmurs and his leg slides over until his knee touches Hannibal's thigh. "I'll be your monster. Misunderstood by the world, but accepted by you. Doesn't sound too bad, right?"

The thought appeals. (Didn't he want Hannibal to watch him burn down the house?)

* * *

Hannibal silently doubts that Will is going to remain awake for much longer. He watches and calculates quietly as Will's eyes begin to fall shut but remain open out of sheer stubbornness. Somehow it seems altogether too fitting. Will looks at him and every time he blinks Hannibal is convinced it'll be the time his eyes simply stay shut, but Will continually opens them again and immediately seeks him out. It's both flattering and a little concerning. Hannibal hadn't been aware of the extent Will had seen his control as a rejection. Apparently it'd been far more severe than Hannibal had imagined.

Will's knee shifts and Hannibal looks down at it, studying the way it presses against his thigh. Were Will more lucid, perhaps it could be seen as another hint as to his current desires, but as it is Hannibal merely takes it as a bid for closeness. He studies Will like this, his expression more open even as exhaustion weighs him down like a blanket, and when Will responds, Hannibal merely considers the suggestion.

"No, it doesn't. Though I did not create you, Will. I merely helped you along. I would much rather you by my side than under my control."

He draws his hand away from Will's cheek, though it's only to reach down for the blankets on the bed. He's careful as he pulls it up over Will - and over his own legs - in the hopes it might help him rest. As soon as he's able, Hannibal reaches up and merely sets his hand over top of one of Will's. Angry at this man for injuring himself as he still is, there is clearly more to it than he'd realized. He can attempt to understand.

"Get some rest, Will. You're exhausted."

* * *

Helped him along... Like he was baby bird that fell out of the nest. Oh, no! Rush to save the little one. Had he been collected, tended to, given water and fed wriggling worms from a caring hand? Would Hannibal teach him to fly once his wing was mended? He's given flight to a firefly, surely the same can be done for him. There's a cliff right there, give him a push and he'll spread his arms, he'll feel the wind against--

No. No flying for him. No falling either. By Hannibal's side. Walking in stride, like they had been doing after they left the gallery. But what if Hannibal's stride is longer than his, what then? Does he stumble behind? Birds and worms, marbles and thread, house fires and threats-- and he should probably stop worrying. He should probably stop thinking. Hannibal wants him to rest. The thought is nice. He's going to lie on the bed and sleep, but hasn't he been resting for days now while his skin pulls itself back together?

He's all settled in now, blankets pulled over him and Hannibal regarding him, watching over him? Will doesn't know what to say, he opens and closes his mouth a few times. He turns his hand over so he can hold Hannibal's instead. His hands are much more rough, calloused while Hannibal's hands are deceptively soft. Soft cruel hands. Will's eyes close.

"Don't cut the thread," he mumbles, but he's slipped under and hears no reply.

* * *

Will won't be awake for much longer. Hannibal can see him slowly falling asleep. The time between blinks increases significantly and Hannibal feels the hand under his own beginning to go lax. The last truly conscious thing Will does before sleep takes him is turn his hand slowly over so that he can hold Hannibal's hand instead. His eyes slide closed then and he mumbles something about the thread he'd been referring to before and then, within seconds, Will is asleep. Hannibal watches, silently transfixed, as Will's expression settles, as it goes lax in the way it had been when he'd found Will half-naked and bleeding on Cordell's makeshift table. There's a softer ease about his eyes now though, the lines gentler and not etched with pain.

Hannibal is perfectly silent as the minutes crawl on. His thoughts are buzzing but he doesn't verbally respond to what Will had said. Instead he stays perfectly still until Will has actively hit REM sleep, and only then does he allow himself movement. He merely touches Will's palm with his own fingers, feeling the roughness of a life fussing with wood and metal and abrasive leashes. These are a tradesman's hands, rougher and callused and well worn from a life of work. Hannibal doesn't kiss them; he will not indulge while Will is asleep. Instead he merely watches this odd creature who has so effortlessly slid under Hannibal's skin.

He waits an hour before slowly extracting himself from Will's side in order to patch him up. Pain curls hotly through his skin and Hannibal leaves the room only for long enough to inform Chiyoh that all is well, then he simply turns on his heel and walks back to Will's room. He's careful and quiet as he cuts new gauze to fit to Will's facial wounds, taking great care with the gash to his forehead. Hannibal cleans the wounds as delicately as he can and then lowers his hand to carefully check and rebandage Will's shoulder. All the while he's mindful of Will's injuries and his breathing. The moment Will’s breathing gets louder, Hannibal stops until it's quieted again and then goes back to work.

The bandages are stark white against Will's skin when Hannibal gingerly lays down on his side again. A thin layer of sweat has broken out on his brows and he relents, taking one of the pills for pain before coming back to join Will on the bed. He peels back the covers and slides onto the bed again, laying down once more on his stomach. The thought of returning to his room does appeal to him but he doesn't do it. Will has woken up without him more than enough times. If this is what Will wants, Hannibal will try to oblige. So he merely closes his eyes, focuses on his breathing, and takes Will's hand. Within ten minutes, Hannibal is asleep.

* * *

_Will dreams of discovering a deserted nest full of baby birds. They're young, they chirp and they’re unaware of the danger the world holds. They're a brilliant shade of blue with flecks of yellow and white - nothing like the more muted tones of ortolans. Still, they have the same fragile bones. Will knows how they would crunch in his hand or his mouth if Hannibal were to prepare them. Hannibal's deft hand plucks out a chick. Surely he's going to help it along, right? Will stands next to him, but makes no move as Hannibal 'helps' the bird meet its fate. It doesn't fly. It can't fly. It doesn't know how. It meets the hungry ocean like a casually tossed stone. Blup. One by one Hannibal frees them until they're is only one remaining in the nest. This time, Will stops Hannibal, his hand holding onto Hannibal's wrist tightly. He can save one. If he saves one... Hannibal glances at him impassively._

_"I thought you said you wanted it all?"_

_Will says nothing. It's a reasonable question. He had said it. Claimed it. The birds had done nothing wrong, though. Wrong place, wrong time..._

_"It's not so simple when faced with the unpleasantries. Would you prefer a blindfold, or... Perhaps you will ask me to stop."_

'Bones and all...' Will wakes up to the memory of Hannibal's eyes intently looking at him when his jaw and teeth crunched down on the ortolan. Dazed, he blinks rapidly, but eventually reality slowly comes into focus for him. It's just been another nap after his pain meds. Oh. And Hannibal is apparently sleeping next to him. Well, that's not such a normal occurrence. Next Will clues in that he's been bandaged up again. Doctor playing doctor. Lucky him. Hannibal is holding his hand. It feels hot and sweaty in-between their palms, but Will makes no effort to try and change anything.

It's nice. Will watches the other man sleep, not caring at all if it is creepy. Hannibal is on his stomach. It wouldn't take much to slip up the shirt and see what's causing so much pain for Hannibal. Will could, but he doesn't. He enjoys the quiet and relaxes. The pain is returning, but it's dull. He feels disturbed by the dream, but less loopy. It's an improvement, he thinks. Will waits there until the need to piss becomes far too urgent and he carefully extracts his hand from Hannibal's hand and takes care of it.

* * *

Will's dreams are whisper silent between them, for no matter how close they become, no matter how many times they wish to become _together_ , it is not a possibility that will ever bear fruit. They sleep and dream separately, Will in vibrant symbolism with extensive colors, and Hannibal with muted tones that are far too innocuous to recall later. He rarely dreams. Pain medication makes dreaming far more lucid but Hannibal is generally spared the horrors of the night. He's been having more nightmares as of late but this comes as no surprise. What matters for the moment is that nothing happens to him then. He only sleeps, his mind free of nightmares, his body aching for rest.

He doesn't wake when Will does. His body and expression are lax with sleep, cheek pressed to the pillow and Will's hand warm under his own. Hannibal doesn't wake up at the feeling of being watched, for there is no malicious intent behind the expression. It's almost fond and it affords Will time enough to watch, to see that even Hannibal Lecter is human enough to need rest.

When Will draws away to use the bathroom, however, the shifting of the bed and the extraction of Hannibal's hand is enough to disturb him. The weight of sleep peels itself back like an outer layer of skin, and Hannibal is distantly aware of the sound of feet shuffling over the floor. He's quiet, floating on the haze of rest, but when he hears sound from the other room and he realizes the body next to him is gone, wakefulness rears its head as he blearily opens his eyes. The drugs are not as active in his system, but they do make him sluggish. The pain is still there but muted, and after a few seconds of slowly blinking and staring without comprehension, Hannibal flexes his hand and frowns slowly. Will...

Ah. Bathroom. Hannibal casts his senses wider and hears the softer footsteps and the sound of running water. A flicker of panic that had begun to rise within slowly fades and he takes his time to carefully lever himself up. The first movement against his back makes him grimace but Hannibal fights the desire to simply settle once more. He'll live. And when he finally manages to sit up and lazily runs his fingers back through his hair to put it in some sort of order, he waits only until he hears Will open the door before speaking.

"Hello, Will. Did you sleep well?"

* * *

Will doesn't want to think on Hannibal throwing off baby birds and what the dream conversation means _._ Trouble is, the dream hadn't been _subtle._ He knows what's eating at him, but he has no idea how to broach the topic right now. Leave it to him to be plagued by his usual symbolic dreams and nightmares while on drugs. Just for once he'd like to have a stupid dream, the kind where you found yourself in your underpants or some shit. Something trivial, like shopping or going to an amusement park. Something less to do with corpses and antlers and violence.

In the bathroom, Will splashes water on his face and looks with interest at the self-inflicted bruises on his neck. Chiyoh had reported them and the bruises brought Hannibal to him like a beacon. 'Warning, reckless Will, come quickly' and Hannibal had. He feels satisfied, but it's likely not a good thing. Not a good habit to take up. Hannibal had been pissed, citing the dangers of improper technique, ever the doctor. Maybe Hannibal had simply wanted to be the one to leave the bruises. God, they were fucked up.

He's not expecting Hannibal to be awake, sitting up and _ready_ for him. Will visibly startles, hesitating in the door frame and blurting out the first thing that comes to mind, "You were throwing baby birds off the cliff." He realizes how deranged that sounds and quickly continues, "Um. In my dream, that is. Nevermind. I slept well."

He needs to be fine, so he makes his legs move and he wanders back to the bed and climbs back in carefully. Honestly, Will wanted to watch Hannibal sleep. Hannibal couldn't surprise or hurt him while sleeping. Now that he has to be awake and aware, Will feels a bit on edge.

* * *

Hannibal has startled Will. Even sluggish from the drugs and from sleep he hadn't intended to have mere hours ago, he sees Will twitch, sees the startled reaction clearly and he watches as Will hesitates in the doorway. For a moment Hannibal wonders what Will had been expecting. Had he merely wished to return to bed, lay down and go to sleep? Had he expected Hannibal to remain asleep so he could slip out unnoticed? Hannibal isn't certain, but Will clearly feels caught and trapped, so when he simply blurts out something nonsensical, Hannibal's brow furrows in confusion. Throwing baby birds off of a cliff?

A dream, he realizes a moment before Will explains it away, and given Will's expression, this isn't something he'd intended to reveal. So Hannibal merely allows him to walk to the bed and climb back in without further questioning. Only when Will has eased himself back down does Hannibal consider him. Will doesn't look like a great swooping bird of prey right now. He looks smaller, contained, almost afraid, and Hannibal finds he is uncertain just _what_ has changed this time. His closest guess is the dream. It had been what Will had blurted out.

"Would you like to tell me about your dream?" He asks. "It appears to have upset you." Throwing baby birds off of cliffs. Hannibal can infer enough about helplessness and innocence and taking advantage of something so vulnerable, but the thought leaves a bad taste in his mouth. Yet as he looks at the deep bruising around Will's throat, he allows himself a small frown. Perhaps there is more to Will's dream than meets the eye. "I may no longer be your therapist, but we were always simply having conversations. If you would like to continue that, so would I."

* * *

They're sharing a bed - at least temporarily. Last time it hadn't gone so well. Hannibal had sent him away like a misbehaving child. Will hadn't expected Hannibal to stay. He thought Hannibal would watch over him until he conked out, patch him up and then leave. Hannibal looks like he's actually been napping too. Buncha' beaten down men trying to sleep away their aches and pains. It could have been endearing in another world, but it's just bizarre in reality. It feels strange to be getting back _into_ bed with Hannibal. Their injuries only allow them a few positions, so once again Will is on his side facing Hannibal.

They're both dressed. Both injured and apparently Hannibal wants him too. Will's not sure, though. He swallows and his eyes fix on the stubble on Hannibal's chin. As much as wants to reach out and explore, Will doesn't reach out. He's invited to share about the dream and he grimaces at the thought. Another conversation, huh... Keeping things in hasn't exactly helped, but Will doesn't trust himself either. He's in flux, but he's desperately trying to plant his feet and _not be._

"Okay, sure," Will eventually replies.

There's the fucking divide between them again. Space on the bed, their bodies not connected... so Will sucks it up and shifts himself closer, but also lower down on the bed. He pseudo-tucks himself in against Hannibal's chest. It feels weak, but he'd rather be closer and not seen than the alternative.

"Dreamed we found an abandoned nest of baby birds by the cliffside." He already feels stupid so he picks up the pace, wanting to just rush through his retelling. "I had the impression you were going to 'help them along' but you simply tossed them into the ocean one by one. They couldn't fly yet. I stopped you on the last bird and you more or less said something to the effect of, 'thought you wanted it all.' I said nothing. You came back with some bullshit about it not being easy dealing with unpleasantries and asked if I wanted a blindfold or if I would tell you to stop... And there you have it, Doctor."

* * *

Will surprises Hannibal once more, as he is so fond of doing. It's something so small, but Will still takes the opportunity to close some of the distance between them. Hannibal moves without thinking and his back protests heavily but he pays it very little mind, the flare of pain like a bite of reprimand he soon learns to ignore. Instead Hannibal's focus is on Will as he eases closer. He moves onto his side, offering the relative safety of his chest up to Will, and is only slightly surprised when Will takes the offer. Hannibal stills, able to feel Will's heat from this distance, and much like the mention of baby birds, Hannibal is almost afraid to startle this one away. Isn't Will a fledgling of sorts? A baby bird losing its soft downy for sharper quills.

To his surprise, Will not only takes the offer to talk, but actually follows through. Hannibal remains quiet as Will speaks, painting an elegant picture of what is very likely the bluff outside. Though he's tentative in doing so, Hannibal does reach a hand over and settles it over one of Will's wrists. It's contact, a respectful offering of support despite everything Will has claimed to want.

As it so happens, what Will has claimed to want seems to be the cause of his dream. Hannibal frowns thoughtfully for this dream immediately gives him a question he believes he already knows the answer to. It isn't one he's about to ask just now.

"Be blind, don't be brave," Hannibal says quietly, though Will has no context for such a statement. "Your subconscious seems to believe it would be easier for you to see me as you choose to rather than as I am. Perhaps in a sense you're concerned I will find a way to eclipse your empathy. That by remaining with me, you will lose a part of yourself. Tell me, Will. How did the dream make you feel? Lost? Unheard? Afraid?"

* * *

It's a risk sharing the dream, but by now taking risks is rather a regular occurrence for Will. Second nature even, for every decision he's made after knowing the truth about Hannibal has held a layer of danger. Self-preservation has nothing on their red thread. Will thinks on the countless reckless decisions he's went through....From sending Matthew Brown to pulling a gun, messing around with Mason to calling Hannibal to warn him... Pulling a knife on Hannibal and now _this._ The house on the bluff where, upon waking, he'd claimed to want it all and yet days later admitted to being _scared_.

It's all a tangled fucking mess. Can Hannibal actually untangle it? Time and patience, he'd said, and Will wants to believe, but nothing's much worked out in his life.

This close to Hannibal, Will's unsure if he feels safe, or if this is simply the lesser of two evils. Hannibal can't see him right now and he can't see Hannibal. Actually, he's pretty sure he doesn't feel safe. Will can't think of the last time he's even remotely felt safe and this realization should bother him, shouldn't it? When a hand comes to rest on his wrist, Will is proud of himself for not flinching. His eyes have closed at some point and he tries to find the darkness behind his eyelids familiar and not threatening.

' _Be blind, don't be brave_ ,' is what Hannibal first says, but this doesn't click for him. He may have dreamed it, but a blindfold would never be an option for him. He's seen Hannibal and there's no un-seeing or un-knowing to be done. "I felt conflicted," Will answers quietly. "I _feel_ conflicted. I want you, but you're not an easy concept to wrap my head around." Will squirms a little just to feel that Hannibal is there and sturdy.

* * *

Conflicted. Hannibal takes this word like he would a gem and inwardly lifts it to the light, checking for authenticity or cubic zirconium. It sounds honest on Will's lips. In fact it sounds far more honest than anything else Will has said to him. There's no bravado shoving it ahead, no anger fueling it into a bitter snap. Will is not confident right now, nor is he angry or self-assured. He's hiding; he's been hiding since the moment he realized Hannibal was also awake, and Hannibal understands the impulse. While he is not a man to physically hide himself away like this, there are other ways to do the same and he has been employing them all. Emotional distance, careful control over word choice, hiding behind any mask he can use in order to figure out what they are to each other now.

Will is not the only one to feel conflicted. The only difference between them is that Hannibal has spent far longer studying the human condition. In order to fashion himself a convincing person suit, he'd had to know people. Yet no amount of case notes and one-on-one practice could have ever prepared Hannibal for this man, who supposedly wants it all on one hand and yet fears him on the other. Much as it sends an aching disappointment slithering through him, he believes this is one instance wherein Will has bitten off more than he can chew.

The term _Stockholm Syndrome_ once again rears its head and Hannibal's stomach twists in revulsion. Both because the term angers him, and because, if it came down to it? He knows he'd still take it. He is primarily a selfish creature and he's quite aware of that. A life _with_ Will Graham has proven itself to be infinitely better than a life without him. The only question is where this tangled twist of thread and fear will lead them, and whose neck the noose will be around when the dust finally settles.

"Your conflict resides in your sense of self," Hannibal says quietly, and his hold on Will's wrist tightens just a little as Will squirms against him. "The man you believe you are compared to the man you believe I am. Conflicting ideals. Drawn to one part of me, perhaps with the side of yourself that matches, and yet struggling to find a grip with your other side. It's less that I am not an easy concept for you and more than I am a concept that holds a vastly different shape than anything you've ever been used to. Perhaps you feel like you must adapt your shape to fit mine or I will slide through your fingers." Hannibal's own fingers tap a small pattern out on the back of Will's wrist, one only he will know the cipher to.

"Why did you stop me on the last bird, Will?" Hannibal asks softly. "You told me my response, my actions. You didn't tell me why you asked me to stop."

* * *

Tucked into Hannibal's chest, sharing his warmth, patched up and fed, Will should feel safe or at least _safer_. Hannibal has told him that he's not going to be eaten, that he's desired, but the words are just a bandaid over a large gash, it barely keeps the skin closed, barely keeps his insides _in_. Hannibal had saved him from the little 'face-off' but a day earlier Hannibal had been conducting his own act of violence with a power tool. Actions and words war out in his head and Will doesn't think there will ever be a winner. He has conflicting evidence and while he could look into Hannibal's eyes and attempt to _see_ more fully, Will feels compromised. He doesn't exactly trust his mental faculties at the moment and if he can't trust himself, how can he really trust Hannibal?

So, he remains and shares and after he fidgets, Hannibal's hold on his wrist tightens, but Will doesn't find it threatening. It has the hint of a restrained strength, the possibility of being overpowered, but Will doesn't think that's going to be happening. He remembers how Hannibal had mentioned Stockholm Syndrome, and it pisses him off even now. Hannibal doesn't want to give him any more reason to be fearful and that _also_ pisses off Will. He's _not_ a victim, he's _not_ weak.

While listening, Will considers the idea of Hannibal as a different shape, something multifaceted and exotic, strange and intimidating, but alluring nonetheless. Can he sum up all of Hannibal's parts, can his eyes take in all the angles and curves? Can Will fit into that shape, or is he the square peg trying to fit into the round hole? Is it about adapting or losing Hannibal like sand through his fingers? Who changes, who bends? They're bound, but they're not identical. The tapping has him losing focus and Will makes a disgruntled sound.

His answer to when asked about the dream comes easy. "I wanted to save one... To at least save one. They hadn't done anything that I could think of that warranted your actions." Will breathes in deeply. "I'm used to operating like that. I was useful, I did good. Now..."

* * *

The answer is exactly the one that Hannibal is expecting Will to give and yet hearing it out loud still physically changes things. It gives voice to Will's farce even though Hannibal suspects that Will hadn't even been aware of creating one in the first place, and it does its part to drive a wedge in the sand between them. Perhaps it stops the sand from leaking through Will's fingers, but it comes at a cost, and that cost is what he'd said before.

Despite his prior assertion, Will doesn't want it all. He _wants_ to want it all, likely. Perhaps it's out of a sense of panic, of dependency, of Stockholm Syndrome. Perhaps it's simply a matter of Will seeking closeness with another who is more like him than anyone else in the world but for a few small differences. It isn't the first time someone has desperately attempted to warp a part of their personality to suit an ideal, but it is perhaps more frustrating now because Hannibal knows he is not alone in his darkness. Randall Tier stands as testament in the minds and crime scene photos of many. Garret Jacob Hobbs stands as testament the same way, as does Mason Verger, though admittedly not by Will's hand.

' _They hadn't done anything that I could think of that warranted your actions,'_ Will says, and Hannibal considers these words more than any. He knows what he would suggest were Will simply a patient coming to him with a problem. He's uncertain if he wishes to.

"As I thought," Hannibal says quietly, and his tone is carefully shaped into a familiar, perfect mold. It's nearly Stepford in its care, not giving anything away. "You've pushed yourself past your level of comfort because you believe that one of us must bend. You believe I am not the man to do so, and you would be correct, to an extent. I won't stop." It's delivered without regret, though gently, as if he's still trying to shield Will from the blow in some way without pulling the punch. "But that doesn't mean that I've forgotten who you are, Will. A relationship in any form holds merit and is worthy of communication and compromise, regardless of what that relationship might be. You _are_ allowed to ask." Hannibal isn't particularly _happy_ about it, but if the decision is between losing Will or a mild compromise, he'll consider it. "Perhaps not every bird needs to fly into the ocean. Not if your argument is sound."

* * *

Will knows sharing about this dream, that exploring it, is him effectively having to swallow his words. Upon waking here, he'd blundered ahead and staked a claim, quick to assert he _wanted_ it all and was _okay_ with it all. He'd reached out to Hannibal, waved a fake olive branch around and lifted his shirt exposing the scar like it had been the most appropriate and _easy_ thing to do at that moment. Days later _,_ it doesn't even make sense to him. Why would he allege to be fine with the _everything_? Because he didn't want to be eaten? Because he didn't want to be left again? Are those even good enough reasons?

Of course Hannibal hits the goddamn nail right on the head when he replies. Will does believe he's the one that ought to bend. Will thinks of Hannibal with his exotic tastes and preferences, his unique way of looking at the world and years spent doing things _his_ way and Will doesn't see Hannibal as the bendy type.

_'You believe I am not the man to do so, and you would be correct, to an extent. I won't stop'_

It's not said unkindly, but it's a definitive statement and unlike _Will's_ former claims, it's one that Will believes. Communication and compromise... Sounds like the introduction to couples counseling, but were they even a couple? Did such a pedestrian word define them, could it ever? Will licks his lips as he considers everything that's just been told to him. Maybe he's been shortsighted in assuming Hannibal would be inflexible.

"Spent so much time thinking about you, dreaming of you, chasing after your image and imagining conversations... Don't think I know what to do or how to be now that I'm actually around you," Will admits. He untucks his head from Hannibal's chest and glances up at Hannibal. Will's expression is cloudy. "I know you're going to say that I need time and space, that nothing should be acted upon, but honestly that just pisses me off. Doing nothing is going to work me up."

* * *

Hannibal can read Will's subtle responses in nothing more than the way he can feel Will moving against him. Will is hiding his expression but he's not hiding his reactions. He shifts when surprised, and stills when thoughtful, and his muscles tense almost imperceptibly when Hannibal says something difficult for him to believe. Will might be hiding his face, but it's almost impossible to truly hide from Hannibal's gaze. From the moment Hannibal had looked upon this man, he'd splayed him open like a butterfly on a board, pinning his wings and observing his reactions. Nothing has changed, save Hannibal's attachment to Will has slowly grown and become far more inconvenient than not. Even so, it's not an inconvenience he intends to change.

It takes time for Will to look up at him. He clearly takes some time to consider the situation, mulling it over slowly. If there's one thing Hannibal can say about Will Graham it's that he rarely shies away from a truth once it's been presented to him. He is not a man to live with his head in the sand if he can help it. Instead Will finally glances up at him and while his expression is clouded, Hannibal can read it with the same ease he's always been able to use while reading Will. (A small note in his mind reminds him of Will's deception but he dismisses this; he'd been blinded then. He is no longer blind.) Will's response is telling, and his honesty is compelling. Hannibal looks at him quietly for a moment before allowing himself a small sigh.

"You do need time and space in order to think, Will. Nothing _should_ be acted upon. But you're correct. Inactivity doesn't suit you. It never has." Hannibal moves one of his hands slowly, and his thumb presses to Will's chin, then moves down to trace the knife's edge of his jaw. "So we won't act. But that doesn't mean we can't talk. Shutting you away will only leave your mind worrying over itself in the way a trapped animal worries at its own leg while caught in a snare. You'll only become destructive. But you _are_ injured. As am I. There is very little either of us can act on at present. So instead I pose a question to you." Hannibal pauses for impact, to draw Will's attention to the forefront of his mind.

"How would one _warrant_ my actions? What series of events would quiet your mind and placate your need to do _good?"_ Hannibal believes he already knows the answer, and he doesn't like the thought. He likes the thought of losing Will even less.

* * *

What do you do if your soulmate is, at the very least, problematic? What do you do if you're even afraid of them? It's these questions that Will has no good answers for. Finding Hannibal had been his mission and he's been found twice. What now? Can Will manage to keep him and would Hannibal keep him in return or are they hopelessly tangled? Will's unsure if people like them get or deserve any sort of “happy ending.” He's pretty sure they don't. So it's back to communication and comprises, like the two of them ever have been good at doing that... but apparently that's about all they _can_ do. Talk and not act. Will listens, but he's obviously not pleased by what Hannibal is saying, his body tense and a frown on his face.

' _What series of events would quiet your mind and placate your need to do **good**?'_

He doesn't even have to think on it. "We... You..." Will's eyebrows then pull in. He's undecided on what route to go with because he's not so certain if killing would actually be a solo pursuit for Hannibal in the future. And even though  _that_ should probably be an issue to discuss, Will instead focuses on the question that's been asked of him. He pushes his jaw into Hannibal's hand. (He wants that hand around his neck, he wants to try and face his fear.)

"Your _criteria_ is what I have a problem with. Or lack thereof. I'm sure that comes as no surprise. You might as well kill those who actually _deserve_ it. The scum. Lowlifes. Not merely the rude and not just on a whim."

He's effectively trying to lay down guidelines for the Chesapeake Ripper. He's been invited to do such a thing, but it still feels borderline wrong. The wrong fit. And honestly, Will's never tried to rein in another, despite his former line of work, he's never been the type to police someone. There's no guarantee Hannibal would even listen, but Hannibal _is_ making an effort for him in at least speaking about it and Will appreciates it. Or he would if he wasn't on edge and pressed close to Hannibal. He's distinctly aware of how dangerous Hannibal is and despite being afraid, he has the itch to want to push and _act._ So, as Hannibal answers Will turns his face, sliding his mouth closer to Hannibal's fingers and he bites whatever finger he manages to get close to.

* * *

There are two ways Will might proceed and one of them is an choice Hannibal has already said he won't accept. He has no intention of _stopping_. His desire to kill is not a need. He feels no compulsion, no craving need to end a life. His killing isn't steeped in rage or blinded by faith; it merely is. Hannibal kills those who deserve it, who _offend_ him. In his own way, he lords his own superiority over them and enjoys watching law enforcement dance. He gets bored and there are certain outlets that are impossible to satisfy without death in the equation. He won't stop, and Will knows that. So barring that, there is only one answer Will _can_ give in this situation, and Hannibal looks down at him in silence, almost daring him to see if he's brave enough to say it.

Is he brave enough to seek to collar the Chesapeake Ripper? To police Il Mostro? Will begins and then stops, and Hannibal can see the weight behind Will's request. He watches, almost curious, as Will gathers himself up, as he struggles to find his bravery and fight his fear. Hannibal remains still, though allows Will to lean into his touch, a reckless action. Though there's few actions more reckless than what Will is saying now.

And there it is. Kill scum, kill lowlifes, kill those who _deserve_ it. Hannibal's lip curls as politely as he can manage, though there's a clear measure of disgust on his face.

"You would have me be a common vigilante," he says flatly. "Artless and--" Hannibal cuts off, his breath drawing in sharply as he goes silent. Will moves too quickly to predict and Hannibal is still as Will's teeth close over his index finger. Sharp teeth dig in around the knuckle, stripping skin like a blade to that of an apple, and Hannibal watches as blood wells up sluggishly under Will's teeth, pinpricks of violence. Pain throbs out slowly but Hannibal doesn't draw away. He merely looks at Will and then curls his finger inside of Will's mouth, digging the nail of his finger in against Will's soft palate.

"Tell me, Will. What would my new criteria be? Killers? Rapists? Kidnappers? What _crime_ is worthy enough to unleash me upon them? That _is_ what you desire, is it not? To harness me? Your very own storm."

* * *

Biting Hannibal's finger is another spectacular case of of his recklessness that can't end well. Great thinking. Who's he kidding, he's not really thinking. Will's thrumming with impulse and frustration, burning to _do_ and _not_ to talk and be picked apart. (To face the mounting problems, to acknowledge the distance between them - has it ever decreased or have the shifting shadows merely obfuscated the distance?) Surprisingly, no repercussion comes - at least nothing _real_ except Hannibal curling his finger and digging his nail into the top of his mouth. Hannibal is appalled by his answer, but it's not an unexpected one. Is this merely another song and dance they must go through? For their limbs and feet to go this way and that, but their bodies constantly be an arms length apart?

Hope is a fucking dangerous feeling, a weak candle trying to be sheltered from the wind. The concepts of good and evil are nebulous at best, but they’re something that remain within Will. He may be darker than he likes, he may be able to dwell in the shadows and feel at home within them, but that's not necessarily where he _wants_ to be. Hannibal's illustrious home resides in a beautiful dark place and Will's tempted to find a room there. He's welcome there. More than welcome. There's an invitation for him, his name handwritten in decadent calligraphy and he could open the envelope, open Hannibal's chest and crawl inside--

Maybe his nature is to be malleable, to be drawn, but he still has a _choice_. He can still do _some_ good. Despite the destructive nature of the storm - of Hannibal - Will can't look away.

He sucks on Hannibal's finger a moment, cleaning the blood off of it before pulling away. He doesn't know about the criteria. This isn't something he's thought over extensively, so he addresses Hannibal's first concern.

"You're not common to me -- shouldn't that be enough?" Will shoots back. He licks his lips, enjoying the taste of Hannibal's blood.

* * *

Fate and circumstance circle them like ravenous wolves, waiting patiently. Eventually they will drop to their knees in exhaustion like wounded animals and that is when gouging fangs will strike. Try as Hannibal may to argue it even in his mind, this conversation has been following them for months. Bitterness wells up like infection in his blood, like bile in his throat, and yet he doesn't lash out at Will. Perhaps Will views his silence as freedom from repercussion but in reality, Hannibal's silence is his own attempt at control. The desire to rise or to immediately deny Will's request is almost violent in his chest, a feral thing snarling at its territory being threatened. That Will has made this request of him is far more dangerous than Will lashing out and biting him. Hannibal can calm his physical responses. He is yet uncertain he can calm Will's request to alter who he is.

He's silent as Will's lips shift, sucking the blood from his finger. It's almost apologetic, the down-turned muzzle of the creature Will is, licking wounds to heal. Hannibal's earlier words stretch out between them like a tripwire rigged to a particular type of explosion. Hannibal watches as Will surveys the field before him, studying the possible answers from all angles, and there is no true _proper_ answer. Compromise is necessary and yet Hannibal doesn't wish to bend. The only saving grace is that killing without Will Graham - killing Dr. Fell and his wife, killing the Professor, killing the Inspector - had felt numb and empty. Dimmond had only sparked something because it had been for _Will_.

And then once more, Will Graham sweeps in under his defenses. Instead of taking the bait, Will bypasses the clear tripwire entirely and his answer is enough to make Hannibal's brow pinch. He stills almost unnaturally and Hannibal is left merely staring at this man, who is openly weak and injured in front of him and yet confident enough to make such a claim. Hannibal's expression slowly pinches in frustration, but defeat is already coating its edges and growing rapidly. Life without Will Graham...

"You believe you are _that_ important to me," Hannibal says softly, bitterly. Yet already he's drawing his hand from Will's face, blood welling slowly around the bite to his finger. Hannibal looks down at it silently, contemplative, and then forms a fist, watching the blood well again. He's quiet for a moment, and then offers Will his hand. "You will come up with a strict criteria once you're capable of writing. We will decide together."

* * *

Will still hears the word 'unworthy' echo in his skull. He remembers all too well that he's been _left_ _behind_ twice by Hannibal. It's a bold claim to make, to assert that his favor and opinion be _enough_ for Hannibal. When it leaves his mouth, Will feels slightly stunned that he's attempted to make such a claim. But he's going to trust his gut and take a risk. For a moment they stare at each other, two stubborn men with their own ideas trying to find some semblance of common ground. Then irritation sparks in Hannibal as evidenced in his expression. Will wonders if this is an overstep on his part and what the possible ramifications will be.

The question that's posed to him in return is telling enough. The words are soaked in bitterness, but they both know the answer. Will's intuition has been proved right.

He _is_ important enough. Hannibal _will_ bend for him. He _has_ worth.

These are dangerous revelations for someone who is undoubtedly unstable and who likes to push, but right now Will simply feels dumbfounded by them. When Hannibal's hand withdraws, he watches the older man look at the superficial wound and make a fist before offering his hand back. Will takes it carefully and tries to concentrate on what Hannibal adds, about criteria and coming up with it _together_.

Will has the urge to cup Hannibal's face, but his one good hand is holding Hannibal's hand. Normally he'd get frustrated by another reminder of his current limitations and injuries, but this has been a significant breakthrough for them and he doesn't want to sully it with his frustration.

"Sounds fair," Will murmurs finally and brings their hands closer, tucking Hannibal's hand under his chin. Will closes his eyes and perhaps because he's in a good mood, he asks, "You ride a motorbike in Europe?"

* * *

Only time will tell whether this wound will fester. Hannibal has only allowed one other to police his actions before and he'd left her to damn herself with her soft heart for over a decade now. That she is with them now is proof that her soft heart had fallen through for her in one way or another. Yet in a silent part of his mind, he still resents her for her weakness. Will he come to resent Will in time as well? Will isn't asking him to stop killing. Even he knows there's no future for them in that request. But Will _is_ asking him to recreate a criteria, to limit himself. How far will that go? Will he be made to remove the artistry from his work? Will he be damned to simply slitting throats? Even though Hannibal knows it's dangerous to continue a pattern now that he's been identified, he still can't bring himself to care. Nothing will get between him and his chosen lifestyle. Not Jack, not God, not anyone.

No one, that is, except possibly Will Graham.

Hannibal's bitterness is no secret even after he offers his hand up and Will gently takes it, smart enough to realize what a thin line he is walking right now. Hannibal isn't surprised over this request. It's not like this has come as a complete shock to his system. Instead he merely looks at Will with a clear frown on his face and he watches the realization settle over Will's features in a form of dumbfounded shock. Yes, how _shocking_ to know that he is actually as important as he believes he is. Hannibal itches to stand and pace but he doesn't. Even angry, the snarling in his chest is far more content here than it would be elsewhere.

He wonders just how intricate the collar is that Will has placed around his throat. And when Will tentatively changes the subject, Hannibal looks at him and then draws in a slow, would-be-calming breath and lets it out again just as slowly. Will's in a better mood and Hannibal doesn't wish to petulantly ruin that (not the side of himself that has logic still, anyway).

"It's an easier means of transportation there, yes. Also not one I am known for."

* * *

Will thinks a topic change is the best decision he can try for right now. Their previous conversation is much too volatile for him to want to deal with at the moment. For once he's not going to poke the sleeping tiger. Even so, there is a part of him that is still in disbelief and feels like he ought to seek a reaffirmation of some kind - to press Hannibal and get something _more_. He doesn't. Will drinks up this momentary calm between them, a deserved lull - even though it's more than a little one sided. He can sense Hannibal's irritation, a bitterness stemming from the realization that one's freedom is being impinged on. It makes sense to Will, he only hopes the bitterness won't slowly rot away at the foundation they're hoping to build.

And isn't that an unsettling thought? Building a foundation with Hannibal. Hoping for a future with the man who had torn through his life like it had been merely delicate tissue paper. He may not be whole, he may not be sure of his final design - of what he'll _become_ \- but Will is going to trust Hannibal to be around him as he's pieced back together (to help him along). Together, they'll take the shreds, and like paper mâché, he'll be built up, layer upon layer and crafted into something. (Something beautiful? He doesn't know, but he hopes Hannibal will think so.) He may start wet and sloppy - a mess - but he'll harden and become stronger by the end.

Wasn't that how it all started anyway? Back then he'd been naive and trusting, desperate for a friend and thinking he'd found one. He'd been a mess, afraid of his imagination, of his empathy, the instability and the darkness lurking around the corners of his mind. Plagued by nightmares and the minds of killers imprinting over his own, life had been a struggle to stay above the water. He'd been weak and easy prey - not entirely his fault given the encephalitis - but he's stronger now. Will may be changed - _changing still_ \- but what remains, is now stronger because of Hannibal.

"Along with the gloves, I kept your jacket," Will finally admits. "And I'm not giving them back." He hadn't consented to give this man his heart, but maybe love doesn't work that way.

* * *

Will is grasping at safer topics. Hannibal observes the behavior distantly with a note of curiosity that manages to break through his bitterness. The knowledge that Will can resist the urge to self-destruct, to antagonize when it would be a danger to him is a good sign. Despite Hannibal's bitterness, he can reward the restraint, if only in his mind. So he picks up the conversation about the motorbike and leaves the previous conversation where it is. He observes it idly like a sleeping viper, but even the most deadly of creatures can be soothed. In time, despite the rules Will seems to wish to impose upon him, Hannibal believes he could be soothed. This is a period of transition, of compromise, and Will Graham is not the only man who must bend now. If this relationship is to succeed, it must no longer be one-sided.

Hannibal breathes quietly and slowly and calls upon relaxation. He is not a man typically ruled by his emotions, but Will has always been an exception to the rule. It means that by the time Will tentatively grasps at his next topic, Hannibal is not expecting it. He hesitates only for a moment before the scene quickly flashes back to him. The catacombs, Will on his knees, Hannibal's disappointment, Will's pulse fluttering against his hand, and the way he'd almost tenderly tucked his jacket around Will.

The gloves are one thing. (If Hannibal looks closely enough he can still see the seam that fine leather has left over Will's throat. He doesn't reach out to trace it; with his hand held under Will's chin, he can't. Instead he's left to look at his own blood dotting and drying against Will's chin from his bitten finger.) The knowledge that Will had kept the jacket as well _does_ come as more of a surprise. The gloves he could have been wearing when Chiyoh had pushed him from the train, but in retrospect, it occurs to him that Chiyoh _has_ been busy. Will had taken no belongings from the Verger estate. He hadn't found the gloves or packed away a jacket, so the only remaining person capable of it is Chiyoh. Hannibal makes a mental note to applaud her efforts.

"I'm not asking you to give them back, Will," Hannibal says after a long pause. While the edge of anger is still in his voice, it has calmed some, quieted by the unexpected note of possession. Will sounds like a guilty child, afraid a parent will force him to return a stolen item to its original owner.

"Consider them gifts. I was not going to leave you without proof you'd not imagined our meeting. Honestly, I'm surprised. I'd expected you to destroy them or throw them out long before now. Do they give you some level of comfort?"

* * *

While on the train they had laid on their respective bunks at night and after conversation with Chiyoh had come to a standstill, Will would bend over to fetch his knapsack and pull out the leather jacket. As far as security blankets went, it was hardly appropriate, but it was _something_ other than his scar that Hannibal had left him with. The jacket had been something tangible, something his fingers could run over and his hands could clutch onto. He held it close to his chest and didn't care how pathetic it was to do so. He could imagine conversations, he could conjure up Hannibal in all of his fine suits, with his deceptive eyes that could, at times, be both soft and hard, but it was never enough. It wasn't _real_.

There's silence that follows his childish claim of not giving the items back. Their hands are conjoined, Will's holding Hannibal's closed fist, tucked underneath his chin, but it feels like barely anything in a way. He knows the prolonged touch is significant for them - especially touch without violence. It's something new for them, but it barely quenches the thirst within him. (It can be enough for now.)

 _'I was not going to leave you without proof you'd not imagined our meeting...'_ Will flinches and he's glad his eyes are still closed. He doesn't want to see Hannibal _seeing_ him. He can't remember telling Hannibal about his hallucinations continuing, but he's not exactly bothered by the knowledge being out in the open.

"Tactile..." Will blurts out. "I liked that they were real and that it was something of yours that I could _touch_. Not a dream, not a hallucination, not something taking place in my mind." His grip tightens over Hannibal's hand.

* * *

Will's flinch is very telling, but his words speak far more than he likely believes. Hannibal goes quiet, but it's a natural slide into it instead of an abrupt stop. He stills and focuses for a moment on Will's touch, on the press of Will's hand around his own and the pulse Hannibal can feel against his closed fist. It's faster now than it had been, but it had only picked up at the mention of hallucinations, or the mention of something happening only in his mind. There are many ways that Hannibal can glean information, particularly when on edge. Will has more than shown his hand, and the concept of Will's hallucinations having persisted is telling. He'd seen Will speaking to someone in the chapel and he'd known - based on the one-sided conversation - that it had been Abigail. The idea that Will is hallucinating enough for his pulse to have picked up so noticeably is another matter.

Maybe his true concern is just the fact that he'd been afraid of his mind telling him that he'd merely imagined the moment in the catacombs. If that's the case... Hannibal glances down at Will's throat again, thoughtful. "I left you bruised. You'd have kept the bruising as well, for a short while anyway. It would have been proof against your hallucinations." Hannibal trails off, then glances back at Will.

"Has that been happening to you more often, Will?" Hannibal asks mildly, his tone still a little tight, but nonjudgmental. Will would suspect a sudden kind tonal shift far more than one where Hannibal is audibly dragging himself back under control. He looks at Will and turns his hand just enough under Will's chin in order to stroke his thumb over the prominent rise in Will's throat, stroking over stubbled skin.

"Moments where reality and imagination seem difficult to discern from one another?"

* * *

The bruises left on his neck... Yeah, they had been proof of their brief reunion underneath the chapel. But bruises healed and the colors faded and in over a week Will's neck looked normal. _He_ looked normal. Untouched. The jacket... A fucking _leather_ _jacket_ meant for motorbike riding though? A memento from Hannibal's new life - a life that Will had nothing to do with and no part in? _That_ felt significant. Maybe he'd been desperate at the time for any table scraps. Maybe he still is desperate to attribute meaning to an object when he's currently living with the man himself, but Will doesn't think it will be changing.

When Hannibal inquires about his the _frequency_ of hallucinations, Will's lips drop into a thoughtful frown. Have they been occurring more often? He knows he's more stable than when a part of his brain had been inflamed. There's been no sleepwaking. No loss of time. No night terrors. He's been _managing_... (Why does that word feel so damning?) A thumb moves over his his throat and Will arcs into the touch, a sound stuck somewhere.

_'... where reality and imagination seem difficult to discern from one another?'_

"Depends what I'm imagining," Will answers quickly, no thought needed. It's true. Certain things - although they may seem vibrantly real - are just too fantastical to struggle with believing (such as Chiyoh suddenly impaled by antlers above him). Abigail Hobbs after they'd been left like unwanted luggage... That was far trickier to deal with. "I can picture you with such ease," Will confesses and his eyes open. "It can be just like old times, each of us in a chair sitting opposite one another. You can pose question after question, but it's never enough."

* * *

There's no disguising the way Will reacts to the touch to his throat. His response is immediate despite their positioning. Even though it likely puts a strain on his muscles, Will is quick to move into Hannibal's touch, pressing the bruises on his throat closer to Hannibal's thumb like he could wear a necklace of his fingerprints were he to just press hard enough. It's telling of the kind of proof Will has been looking for, and telling as to Will's mental state. No wonder he'd come to see Hannibal in the middle of the night and touched him. If he's been struggling with reality and imagination, any _proof_ has to be rather tempting. Given that he's been drugged on top of that, Will's desperation makes a little more sense.

"I spoke of an imago once. An idealized image of a person stored in one's unconscious that influences one to act based on their perception of the other. I believe that is the image you keep of me in your mind, Will. An image you can call upon. The shade of the man you believed me to be. An ideal. Helping by posing questions to you." Hannibal's thumb stills for a moment before it slides back up. He has no goal in his touch, no ultimate aim. He merely seeks to keep sensation varied, following a path only Hannibal knows. Any extra proof that this is not Will fueling the motion will likely help. "But you are not blind, Will. You know the imago in your mind is only half an image. Half of what I am. That is why it's unfulfilling. It's not the real thing, nor is it an accurate shade."

Hannibal considers his words for a long time and then glances down at Will's hands, desperately clutching his own close. It takes him only a moment to make a decision. "Look at me. Just as I am. Focus on what you see," Hannibal says softly. "And as you do, I want you to think of the image you have of me in your mind. Use your hand to touch me, if it helps. Find what doesn't match physically first. Alter your mental image. And as you do, I want you to tell me what's _missing_ in the personality."

* * *

Will's always been a little twitchy, more reckless than he ought to be, but never this masochistic until Hannibal. He thinks he would allow Hannibal to give him all kinds of marks, for _if_ Hannibal was hurting him, it would mean Hannibal was touching him at the very least. It's messed up, but Will thinks falling in love with a cannibalistic serial killer who's tried to kill you takes the cake. So, he presses forward, gravitating to the thumb that's touching his throat -- to Hannibal. (Strings, fate, insanity -- Will isn't certain he wants the tangles to become sorted out. Isn't the mess what he's used to?)

An imago is mentioned. Will can still recall the conversation, though it feels like a lifetime ago. Lamb had been served and Hannibal offered for them to leave _that night,_ citing it as being almost polite if they were to leave a note. It had been one last chance offered up to Will, but Will hadn't been able to take it. (Oh, but if he had, this house would have a child in it too. Not his, but _theirs_...) Will knows now that Hannibal had, erroneously, believed in an ideal -- in _him_. Guilt washes over him anew and Will momentarily flounders until he pushes it down. Even after everything Hannibal has done to him, Will feels fucking _guilty_ for shattering that ideal, for breaking Hannibal's heart. They're both familiar with breaking teacups, aren't they?

Even with all his imagination, Hannibal is right; what Will imagines is never satisfying or _accurate._ He's ultimately given a taste but left unfulfilled. Silence settles over them and Will remains still as he clasps Hannibal's other hand. (Alive. Here. _Real_.) When Hannibal speaks again, Will's invited into what sounds almost like some therapeutic exercise of some kind. He's to compare and contrast his mental image of Hannibal to the _real thing._ Will grimaces, his eyes glancing to Hannibal's face as eyebrows knit together in uncertainty. Somehow altering his mental image of Hannibal fucking Lecter seems like a daunting task. He also really doesn't know how closely he wants to observe Hannibal in this present moment. His unease has given way to his pulse elevating. Even so, Will doesn't want to flat out refuse (because then what?). He has enough sense about him to know that this is significant.

As he only has use of one arm, Will makes a choice and lets go of Hannibal's fist. His hand reaches out, across the rather small space between them, and Will looks uncertain as the tips of his fingers make contact with a defined cheekbone. Will purposefully runs over a scabbed cut. _Human._ That's definitely one of the differences, Will thinks. This Hannibal laying next to him much more vulnerable.

"You're more _human_ than the personality," Will reveals softly, his fingertips travelling over stubble on Hannibal's jaw. "You bleed, you bruise... In all ways."

* * *

It's a difficult challenge for anyone to undertake, much less someone in the state Will currently finds himself in. Hannibal's request is not entirely fair to him especially considering how Will's grip on reality seems to keep fluctuating. Yet he can think of no better grounding exercise than this. If Will's finding it difficult to separate the real image of Hannibal from the idealized imago in his mind, it's no wonder he feels so conflicted. Dwelling on an idealized version for the months they'd been separated can only be damaging. Even Hannibal is guilty of it - one reason he'd been so immediate in his desire to have Will close to him again - but he is slowly learning the new differences in Will Graham and updating his knowledge. Will clearly hasn't been, so Hannibal invites him to now.

Hannibal doesn't drop his hand even as Will lets go of him. Will's hand moves out on its own and Hannibal merely keeps touching the line of Will's throat, from the lines of muscle under its surface to the rise at its front. As Will's fingertips touch to Hannibal's cheek, Hannibal looks at him and holds still, allowing Will the free rein he needs. Callused fingers slide over Hannibal's skin, over the sensitive-sore scabs from the glass display, and then down over the scratch of stubble Hannibal hasn't yet managed to shave away. Hannibal trails his own thumb under Will's chin, feeling the thicker stubble there, and when Will finally speaks, Hannibal nods slowly.

"In all ways," Hannibal confirms. "And being human brings with it another issue. I am not infallible. The imago in your mind knows your every thought perfectly because you do. Often times we create an image of one we respect or care for in order to serve as a conscience, or a guide during unconscionable acts. You have grown accustomed to the shade in your mind, Will, but even you are aware it's a poor imitation. Am I? Despite your uncertainty, despite your frustrations, can you _feel_ the difference when we speak, as opposed to when you speak to the shade in your mind?"

* * *

The night before Will mentioned hating Hannibal in a weakened state. While the sentiment still remains, he has a better understanding of where such a comment had came from. The imago - the imagined Hannibal of his mind - has always been stronger and faster than him, more cunning and ruthless, less vulnerable. Less _human_. While the real Hannibal had deceived and tricked them all, Hannibal had bled still. Hannibal's chest contained a heart and it _was_ breakable. Will had managed it at any rate. Hannibal wasn't _only_ the devil who played Jack, Alana and Will as well as countless others. Even Abigail Hobbs had been misled, believing that Hannibal would keep her safe...

Is there safety here for Will? On this house that overlooks the Atlantic, with a woman who has no warmth for him and a man who has already tried to kill him, is Will simply awaiting his own final act to playout? Will wonders if Abigail had ever suspected Hannibal would truly become her father... Hannibal and her had kept each other's secrets, thick as thieves, orchestrating her death and framing Will (but freeing her in the process). Had she felt certain and safe in his presence? She must have had hopes and plans for her future, but Hannibal had taken her from a nest he'd made and tossed her off the cliff.

Will tries to focus on the question asked of him. (If he stops talking, what then? Surely Hannibal would leave.)

"Conversations with the imago have mostly taken place when you were gone," Will begins thoughtfully and he closes his eyes as his fingers continue to trace softly over Hannibal's face. He's been invited to touch, yes, but still Will feels a little in awe that it's actually transpiring. He's gentle as the tips of his fingers pass over scabs that he has the urge to rip off.

"And each conversation left me with a dull ache. _You_ certainly don't leave me with anything that's even remotely _dull_." Will pulls his hand away, but he's unable to give up this allowance just yet, so he reaches back and cups Hannibal's face.

* * *

Will is in his own mind, but in this instance Hannibal merely allows him the shelter. He remains still as Will's fingers trace slowly over his face, over the lines of the scabs, over stubble, over new, faint wrinkles from the stress of being apart from Will for so long. Hannibal is a better man now than he'd ever been before but Will needs a safe new image in his mind. He needs to explore what he'd never been allowed to before. He needs to make new what he'd never made real. Hannibal watches Will as his eyes close, as the touch slides over his skin and Will is able to focus on the newness under his hand. Hannibal's own hand remains on Will's throat, still now, merely touching.

"You ached following your conversations with the imago as it was a poor imitation at best," Hannibal murmurs. He speaks slowly so as to not upset Will's touch, and while he does begin to frown when Will makes to draw away, Will quickly surprises him by reaching back in and just outright cupping Hannibal's face. He stills - surprised but not unpleasantly so - and after a moment of thoughtful consideration, Hannibal leans mildly into Will's touch, simply accepting it.

"The issue you face is that the mental image in your mind is safe, Will. You can predict it. There are no surprises and there are no risks. Yet it's a representation of what you feel you've lost. You've not lost everything. Neither of us are the men we once were, but we have an opportunity to update our mental images, to explore who we are now and discover where we stand with each other. It will be tempting to retreat into the safety of your mind, to find comfort in the imago you can call up to speak with you in my stead, but I urge you to seek me out in those moments. Engage in _real_ conversation, Will. Regardless of how difficult." Hannibal trails off for a moment, just allowing the words to sink in.

"Have there been other instances of hallucinations, Will? Did you have them before I left?"

* * *

He's caught between pulling away and keeping his hand pressed to Hannibal's face. Hannibal leans into the touch and it should be enough for Will to not go through with detaching this point of connection, but he still feels unsure. They're both gentle with each other, Hannibal's hand on his neck, Will's hand cupping Hannibal's face. It's almost how new lovers would act. At least that's how Will thinks of it. The softness, the quiet talking, a reverie of closeness, but Will doesn't know if he likes it for _them._

He doesn't want therapy with Doctor Lecter, but the more they talk, the more this is resembling a session from the past. He's had enough, enough of those kinds of conversions to last him a lifetime. And yet Will is afraid of what may happen if he opens his mouth and blurts out what's below the surface. Urges and uncertainties lurk, waiting to break through the water's tension and create disharmony. Oh, Will knows they need the calm waters. They need to rest and recover and tread softly around each other, to learn to trust and find some semblance of peace and a foundation.

But it gets harder to behave as Hannibal goes on about him not losing everything (like Hannibal is a good judge), that this is a fucking _opportunity_ to update their images of each other, to explore and understand, but to not give into temptation. To seek out Hannibal instead and yak with him. Will's sure nothing would please Hannibal more than Will desperately seeking him out to _converse_. Will swallows, his jaw clenching at Hannibal's words. He opens his eyes as Hannibal asks an entirely practical question from a curious therapist to his patient.

"Have there been other instances of hallucinations?" Will scoffs, and the cacophony rises in his head as he makes a splash. "Wouldn't you like to know, Doctor? Lucky me, another _opportunity_ for some fucking therapy with a dash of sweet caressing on the side."

Will's hand slides further back into sleep tousled hair and he grips hard. "You jealous I made the bruises instead of you?" He's grasping at straws, taunting monsters, but stormless skies have never interested him.

* * *

The blood from the wound drawn from Will's teeth still lines his knuckle and somewhere under the layers of Hannibal's control, the danger from their earlier conversation still lingers. He's curtailed it, wound it around its tether so it but it's still inside, chained and wanting freedom. Will has sought to change the subject a few times and despite the easier conversation, despite Hannibal's attempt to speak of imagos and carefully-constructed images, complacency is not a state that suits Will Graham.

Hannibal's attention is on the possibility of further hallucinations. He's wondering already if the hallucinations had started _after_ he'd left Will on his kitchen floor, or before that. If they've been there the whole time, it's possibly permanent damage left from the encephalitis. If not, they're likely stress-induced. He's curious and mildly concerned, for now that he's found Will again, now that he has him close and as safe as he can be while so contained, Hannibal has no plans of letting him go. So his attention has slid back into old patterns, conversation he'd ached for in Bedelia's presence. For once, he's blind to Will's growing disquiet. He only notices it a second too late, when Will repeats Hannibal's question and then _scoffs_.

His eyes narrow and in his mind, the danger from Will's demand that he only kill those who _deserve_ it begins to yank at its tether again. It creaks ominously and Hannibal's open expression begins to shutter just enough to make a point.

"Will," Hannibal says lowly, "language." But _language_ isn't his main concern right now. Like a rubber band, Will has been stretched too far in the other way, and Hannibal does intend to deal with this rationally. They're hardly in the best position to be violent, but apparently reality has skewed for Will in that area as well. Will's hand slides back into his hair and grips sudden and hard, drawing a mild hitch to Hannibal's breathing that sends a ripple of pained sensation down his back. Indignation flares and the tether begins to pull free, inch by inch, as Hannibal shoots Will as mild a look as he can.

"You object to therapy? It seemed to settle your mind before," he says, so mild that it's practically a lash - proof Hannibal doesn't intend to play Will's game at the moment. "I would not have asked you if I didn't wish the answer. I'm concerned that you've been hallucinating. But," he adds wryly, "yes. I _am_ jealous the bruises on your throat are not mine. That's hardly a secret."

* * *

It's not really the topic or the question that has Will up in arms. Will's aware that there's a chance of relapse with the anti-NMDA receptor encephalitis, especially given that he'd received actual treatment so fucking _late_. (Gee, just whose fault was that?) He also hadn't developed a tumor that could have been removed. If he had, with it cut out, he would have had an improved long-term prognosis and reduced chance of relapse as the source of autoantibodies would be gone. So yeah, he understands that medically speaking it's beneficial to know more about his hallucinations. Like Jack, Hannibal needs to know what 'kind' of crazy he is. (He tries to tell himself Hannibal doesn't _really_ want to get inside his head now.)

Apparently he's the kind of crazy that is irked by gentle touching. It's laying in a bed together after having a fucking nap together that agitates Will. He shouldn't be. On the list of Hannibal's offenses, this is hardly anything, but Will's always been an impulsive man and maybe he's curious how Hannibal would react. His language is chastised, like he's cussed in some holy place or at the dinner table in front of family. Will doesn't particularly care. He's not going to stop swearing just because Hannibal reprimands him. Will doesn't exactly mean to hurt Hannibal from the hair pulling (he thinks), but he can tell that he's somehow bothered whatever injury is on Hannibal's back. A cool look is sent his way and when Hannibal responds, Will knows that Hannibal is resisting the maelstrom he's been stirring up.

Will feels a mix of irritation and awe at Hannibal's mild responses. His hand lessens its grip, no longer pulling Hannibal's hair, just holding it securely. He's been caught off guard and while he _could_ push and try again, he's suddenly not feeling inclined to do so.

"I've... I've had hallucinations of one kind or another since my twenties," Will confesses. It's his version of an apology. "The encephalitis ramped them up." As if on cue, he hears his stag's familiar snort coming from the hallway and blinks rapidly.

Not real. Not really there. Will doesn't look away from Hannibal's face. Now that his brain isn't on fire, it's easier to tune them out. Usually.

* * *

Perhaps it is the show of control that ultimately lessens Will's hold, or perhaps the reminder that Hannibal is hardly a mild man at present. His voice is quiet and there is complete control in it, but he is capable of a lot. Will is intimately familiar with what Hannibal is capable of. Hannibal levels Will with a look and watches as Will's irritation eases slightly. The grip in his hair softens but doesn't release entirely. Hannibal would still classify the grip as tight by normal standards, but given that Will _has_ released his hold a little, Hannibal doesn't feel inclined to draw back. Instead he breathes slowly, attempting to maintain his own control despite the spark of irritation, the lingering anger and the drugs in his system.

Will's apology is not in direct words, but in admissions. Hannibal stills when Will begins to talk about his hallucinations and while it's faint (as he's still _very_ displeased Will had lashed out to begin with) Hannibal allows a mild approval to flicker behind his eyes. He lifts his chin as much as he can and his own hand finally falls away from Will's throat - a lingering reprimand that he'd lashed out to start - but Will still has his attention. Hannibal listens and nods; mental illness, likely.

"Encephalitis often exacerbates existing conditions. It's possible there was some lingering damage done, but your hallucinations could also be hinged on stress. You've not been without that lately."

Hannibal trails off, because he notices the way Will begins to blink rapidly. Not a seizure, but perhaps a way to ground himself. Given the way Will fixates _precisely_ on Hannibal's face, it doesn't take him more than a second to understand. Hannibal lifts one hand and snaps his fingers, the sound jarring and sharp between them.

"Whatever you see, whatever you hear, it is not real. _I_ am real. My hair under your fingers. My voice. If you wish to talk about this, you may, but I gather you don't necessarily _wish_ to talk."

It sounds bitter to Hannibal's ears, but it's difficult to not read into what Will has done.

* * *

It's not easy to try and reel himself back in. Will wants to lash out, to incite, to have Hannibal be anything but mild-mannered with him. Why is composure his enemy? It's because Will feels anything _but_ composed, so why is Hannibal? Well, because Hannibal is Hannibal. Hannibal thinks of their situation as an _opportunity,_ whereas Will feels like it's the aftermath of a meteor striking and decimating his life. Hannibal is unshaken now. Hannibal had also been unshaken while cutting into his skull... Not so much his belly, at least. Will feels _want_ and _need_ and _urgency_ like an animal pacing in a cage.

There's a hint of approval in Hannibal's eyes, but it's tempered by Hannibal's hand pulling away from his throat. For Will, the touch is more important than the look of approval and he clenches his jaw again. It's a reprimand that _matters_ unlike the 'language' comment. He listens to Hannibal and the words 'lingering damage' sound just great. Thanks Doctor Lecter. Stress induced. Yeah, no shit, but sometimes Will prefers the company rather than being alone.

He doesn't exactly want the stag's company now, though. In the past Will's usually followed it down halls or corridors or along fucking train tracks. It's never _his_ , it's always out of reach. Like Hannibal. Hannibal, who's snapping his fingers and trying to ground him and yeah, it's Hannibal's hair and his voice, but Will doesn't feel like he _has_ Hannibal either. It's sand slipping through his fingers, not hair. Will grimaces and stares resolutely at the deeper cut under Hannibal's eye.

"We're not going to get anywhere if I don't talk," Will responds, equally bitter. "I need..." Will cuts off. He hears the _clip-clop_ of hooves walking away.

"Should I even ask?"

* * *

Resentment grows and festers like weeds in an otherwise pristine garden. Hidden under the foliage, under full blossoms and thick greenery, weeds grow and suffocate life, affecting growth, sapping resources, killing the plants. It's not unlike what has been allowed to grow between them in the months they've been separated. Just as Will stares resolutely at him, his expression drawn and tight, threatening the wounds left along his face, so too does Hannibal look back at Will, his own expression deceptively tight. Will is fire and rage and Hannibal is ice and control and yet the both of them are drawn to one another even now. Two monsters with similar pelts forever fighting instinct to come together despite complacency in isolation.

Despite the yank to his hair, that Will has forced himself calm - that he is making a concentrated effort to _talk_ \- is enough to ease the twist of anger in Hannibal's chest. He catches the clench of Will's jaw when he removes his hand and makes note of it, but it isn't until Will's lips twist in a dry grimace that Hannibal truly allows him his attention. In his mind's eye he can almost see Will's hackles raised, the baring of wild fangs, and yet his gaze is low, submissive but not cowering. It's an effort Hannibal can appreciate, especially with how bitter Will sounds when he speaks.

That he cuts himself off almost immediately after beginning the statement with ' _I need...'_ and it piques Hannibal's interest. With the way Will has been going from one extreme to the next, there's been no predicting him. One moment he wants it all (to take and be taken, to kneel, to murder, to eat, to _be_ ) and the next he's afraid. One moment he desires closeness and favor, the next he intentionally sabotages it. One moment he's content to be in Hannibal's presence, the next he can hardly stand to breathe his air. Hannibal is not too proud a man to admit he cannot follow Will's spiral. He can understand them, but he cannot predict them, so that Will looks like he can finally put something to voice makes Hannibal look at him. He's silent for a moment, then reaches out. He does nothing but brush his bitten knuckle over Will's chin, over the scrape of stubble, but it's contact.

"Yes. You should. Tell me what you need, Will."

* * *

More than lashing out with words, more than biting and pulling hair, being honest is what feels threatening to Will. If he's honest, if he admits his needs and exposes weaknesses, Hannibal could choose to deny him; Hannibal would wield a knife and yet again know just how to cut. Last night his honesty, his admission of fear, it had got him sent from Hannibal's room like a misbehaving child. Granted, Hannibal had been likely surprised, on drugs and probably not firing on all cylinders, but it still had _stung_.

Will doesn't _want_ to ask, he wants Hannibal to _know_ , but that's just the easy way out and nothing would be ever simple or easy. (That is a lesson scarred onto his abdomen.) He doesn't live inside of Hannibal. It's not possible. Will backs out finishing his statement and instead asks if he should bother. Maybe Hannibal isn't in a giving or considering mood. Will hasn't forgotten that he had tried to assert control over Hannibal and direct his murderous intent. Will doesn't want some unlucky person who's having a bad day and happens to be rude to Hannibal to end up in the frying pan. Shouldn't they be killing destructive people like Tier? (And God, why does thinking about such things seem so _natural_?)

The brush of a knuckle has Will's eyes briefly flicking upward to Hannibal's eyes. Hannibal is brief when he breaks the silence. It's barely a reassurance, but it's something and Will is going to grab onto it and try and run with it.

"You uh... You like control. And I'm--" Will can feel heat creep into his cheeks, and his eyes focus on Hannibal's stubble. "I'm desperate for your attention. I've never really done it before. I've just watched it." Will means _in porn_ , but he's not going to fucking say that. "You know, a dominant-submissive type of thing. I've had fantasies of you... Doing that sort of thing. To me."

* * *

Hannibal considers a great many possibilities in the seconds it takes for Will to speak, but in all his thoughts, in all his expectations, he could not have predicted Will's answer. His surprise is evident only due to the medication he'd taken before resting. His inhibitions are down just enough to make his reactions more obvious - his anger quicker, his displeasure evident, his pleasure immediate - and Will's admission tears through his erected shields like a bullet through rice paper. Hannibal stills, at first believing he's inferring Will's meaning incorrectly, but no, the beginning of Will's statement (' _You' like control... and I'm desperate for your attention_ ') makes it difficult to assume much else.

Will confirms it and Hannibal's eyebrows climb higher on his forehead. The scabs on his face twinge stiffly in displeasure but when Hannibal looks at Will, it's with a new understanding. The heat to Will's cheeks and the pointed way Will looks at him means he's embarrassed, and with embarrassment comes an honest admission. Immediately it's like the slotting of a final puzzle piece and Hannibal's ire fades into something almost curious. Will acting out, his uncertainty, his _fear_ \- the fear of being abandoned, of being left behind, of Hannibal's interest waning - makes sense in this new light. There is a possibility that Will has been aching for direction, has been pushing himself because he fears being forgotten. (There is also a possibility _this_ is another effort he will try to take back later.)

Hannibal glances at the bruises on Will's throat and thinks of the way Will had knelt for him in the catacombs, the fact that Will has already mentioned getting on his knees and _begging_ once. It feels like a glaring neon sign Hannibal had missed on his travels but now that he sees it, he can't imagine how he ever failed to notice it to begin with. Will has had fantasies, Will _wants_ , and while there is a risk, Hannibal cannot pretend he has no interest in the idea. Likewise, he can't pretend that there isn't _opportunity_ in this as well. Will aches for foundation. They both do. Trust has been shattered. Perhaps this is a way to rebuild it.

"Your throat, I presume," Hannibal says, speaking of the fantasies Will has apparently had. "You fantasized then and wound up injuring yourself." For a moment, Hannibal considers chasing that topic, but it had taken courage for Will to even suggest this. While their power dynamic has never been equal, this is Will actively asking a man he's afraid of to control him. Hannibal looks at Will.

"I don't need to tell you that this sort of arrangement takes _absolute_ trust. You will have the power of a safeword, but this means I will likely ask you to do things you don't see the point in immediately. It will be difficult and I will expect a great deal from you. You might not enjoy everything, and I _will_ punish recklessness and intentional or ignorant mistakes."

* * *

Is there likely a smoother way to breach this subject with Hannibal? Yeah, but Will hadn't expected to bring this up today or even tomorrow. Given his nature, he'd of course expected that it was an eventuality, a matter of _when_ and not if. Will would somehow crack and spill all of his secrets in time, wouldn't he? He would do such a thing because there's a pitiful urge to be known by this man laying next him, to be _seen_ wholly, each facet, every angle taken in and for him be accepted. Understood and _loved_ despite his flaws, despite being a storm. This clashes with his usual guarded manner and there's a war between wanting to hide and needing to be known.

But he's not hiding now. Will's confessing and and not looking to be absolved, but _indulged_. The confession unburdens him in a way, but sits uneasy in his stomach. There's no flood of relief from bringing this all up, but it's too late now. Will can't take it back and he actually doesn't think he wants to. Hannibal looks surprised, but not necessarily stunned by his disclosure. Will has the distinct feeling that Hannibal is connecting the dots, possibly even remembering Will's little tirade about wanting 'everything' because Will had specifically mentioned crawling on his knees and _begging_ amidst his list (fucking, killing, cannibalism).

Hannibal mentions his throat - a correct guess - and Will licks slowly at his bottom lip. He's slipped on Hannibal's leather gloves and wrapped his hands around his own throat more than once. He did it last night. Will has other fantasies, many of them not family friendly and he's certain he'll share them with a Hannibal sooner than later. Despite the embarrassment still present, Will's not mortified as Hannibal continues on. Absolute trust. It sounds daunting, but he thinks this could maybe help them. The prospect of difficulty is exciting, the promise of _punishment_ is oddly intriguing. Will's not shocked to find himself growing a little aroused, his boxers a little more tight.

"When do we start?" Is what Will replies with. He needs something, he needs Hannibal's attention. Maybe this paves the way.

* * *

There are logistics to think about and the most glaring one of them is that both Will and Hannibal are injured. Will's injuries will take time to heal even if the wounds to his face are already starting, but Hannibal's injuries are a little more complicated. Will is asking him to be dominant and there is a physical side to domination that Hannibal cannot yet indulge without pain, just as there is a physical side of submission that Hannibal wouldn't dare risk right now. He reins his thoughts in through the lingering haze of the drugs and instead Hannibal merely breathes, clearing his mind and refocusing on this request from a different angle. Will is undoubtedly expecting something sexual; Hannibal can read it in the arousal in the air. It's thick and heady and tempting and sits heavily in the back of his throat and yet Will's soft admission of fear continues to swoop in and claw at any desire that builds.

 _Trust_ is more important. Already Hannibal knows that trust and foundation are what is actually important. If Will lashes out at him while they are on equal ground, there is a possibility that Hannibal can use this arrangement in a different way. They need to heal and recover in more ways than just physically, so while the spice of Will's arousal in the air is tempting, Hannibal reluctantly ignores it. Instead he considers Will thoughtfully, musing on what he wishes. It's difficult with the drugs in his system but Hannibal already knows that this is the best thing for them both. It's opportunity. It's worth it.

"This evening," Hannibal decides after a pointed pause. "If you wish to explore this avenue and you have not changed your mind, you are to come downstairs this evening and sit at the table for dinner. You will be presentable and dressed in something you find comfortable, and the first word you say to me will be the word you've selected as your safeword. Chiyoh will be present; I will tell her nothing, and you won't need to explain yourself. The submission won't officially start until _after_ dinner, when I tell you." Hannibal draws in a slow breath and then lets it out.

"If you don't join me at the table, I will assume you've changed your mind."


	5. A reckless man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He wants to intimately remember this moment, of the battle between desire and inaction. It's a struggle that he doesn't exactly mind, for it's one that won't destroy him. Because Hannibal is here, and they're going to take care of each other. (' _Keep me and I'll keep you._ ' Surely their thread will embroider this upon their skin, a promise that will sew them together. _Conjoined_ , physically. Their own mural of bodies, but this time, the bodies are willing.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ( ᐛ )و Hey! This chapter is hella long & pretty intense, so please be in a good headpsace when you embark on this journey.

Hannibal leaves shortly after and Will has a few hours left to his own devices. To _behave_. To consider backing out or going forward in what he's brought up and Hannibal has tentatively agreed to. To think of a fucking safeword for Hannibal Lecter. God, one of those would have came in handy before... ' _No, Hannibal, please don't kill Abigail - Firetruck!' 'Uhhh, how about not getting into my head - Oklahoma!'_ Fuck. He needs to stop thinking about those memories -- preferably sooner rather than later if he wants any chance of making things work with Hannibal (and not being a complete mess in the process).

Moving forward. Moving on. Letting go. Such concepts were nice in theory, they're certainly admirable goals, but Will has no idea how to go about _doing_ such things. Is 'more time' the only answer? It's a general answer -- a bullshit answer, for time is both definitive and nebulous. Sixty seconds to a minute, sixty minutes to an hour. Twenty-four hours in a day, three hundred and sixty five days in a year, but how much time must pass for the wounds he carries inside to heal and scar over? For certain memories to lose their ache? For the very _names_ of people to no longer be tainted? Hell if he knows.

Will behaves. He doesn't go and choke himself. He doesn't seek out Hannibal or Chiyoh. He mostly paces and tries to not get caught up in thinking about what will transpire _after_ dinner. When Chiyoh knocks to alert him that dinner is ready, Will's dressed in a loose fitting white button down shirt that he can slip on without having to actually worry about said buttons. He's wearing nicer pants, charcoal gray. He thinks. Hannibal said to wear something comfortable, but instead Will's chosen nicer. Not that the clothes are uncomfortable. Well. Too late now.

He makes his way down the stairs slowly, nerves climbing as each step draws him closer to the dining room and closer to Hannibal. Chiyoh and Hannibal are there seated and as Will pulls out his chair he looks pointedly at Hannibal.

His eyes are determined and Will clearly states, "Good Grief" before sitting down.

Hannibal likely won't get the Charlie Brown reference, but that's okay. It doesn't even matter if he understands the idiom. Will is just going to hope this football isn't taken away from him this time.

* * *

Giving Will time to think is the best thing for him, but that doesn't mean that Hannibal enjoys the idea of leaving Will with his own mind. There are any number of things that could go wrong but if they do, it's simply more proof that this is another instance of Will blindly reaching and wanting without thinking about it first. So Hannibal leaves to his own room to clean himself up and think. It proves difficult, and while the raw, searing pain from the brand upon his back is a twisting, almost nauseating sensation, he doesn't take medication. In the event that Will _does_ agree to this, Hannibal plans on keeping a clear mind.

He rises around six to assist with dinner but is not entirely surprised to see that Chiyoh has already made a point to get started. Irritation spikes but Hannibal shoves it aside. At present, he is unable to properly attend to meals and so he simply thanks Chiyoh and ignores her sidelong look of suspicion. Clearly she'd noticed him not in his own bed earlier but she's far too proper to say anything. Hannibal merely tells her to make enough for three without specifying why, and while it pains him to take a side role, he sits at the table and works at chopping herbs for the rice as she prepares a glaze for the salmon she has. Hannibal inwardly decides it to be appropriate.

The table has been set and the meal plated by the time Hannibal hears Will on the stairs. A small thrill of curiosity and anticipation curls within but he merely glances at the stairs and then at Chiyoh, who frowns mildly. Hannibal draws himself up taller, and while the posture puts an uncomfortable pressure on his back, it's necessary. He sits as Will arrives and Hannibal casts a quick glance over him, taking note of the loose button-up (good for his arm) and the pants. It's nicer than Hannibal had expected but he merely keeps his expression blank as Will walks over. Hannibal lifts his chin, looking calm and expectant and - to his inward relief - controlled. The black slacks and slate blue dress shirt help with the image.

In the end, as Will had predicted, Hannibal doesn't understand the reference and the safe word (or words) draw a mild frown to his lips. Yet there is no disguising the clarity in Will's voice, nor the determination in his eyes. Hannibal silently locks the words away and a knot unwinds itself from his stomach as Will lowers himself down into the chair. He does nothing but dip his head in a small nod of acknowledgement and while he doesn't smile, there's pride in his eyes. "Good evening, Will."

"Mr. Graham," Chiyoh adds, though her confusion is much more pronounced and suspicious. She glances from Will to Hannibal and back again, distrust clear, but she has the sense to not make it an issue. She doesn't look pleased to see Will, but nods at him anyway before turning to her meal.

"Chiyoh made the meal tonight," Hannibal says calmly, and the look he sends Will is pointed. They have not begun; Will is not his submissive currently, but _manners_ have importance. "Maple glazed salmon with herbed wild rice."

* * *

When Will had thought of Hannibal being dominant with him, he never had imagined it would involve giving a safeword over a meal and with an observer present. It's strange, but maybe it fits for _them_. They've never been apart of the norm to begin with, men going against the currents in their own way. Hannibal looks presentable and undrugged, more like the composed image Will is used to from the past. There's no vests and ties, no suit jackets and pocket squares, but that's to be expected. Injuries and their current location puts damper on such dress wear. Hannibal's wardrobe is likely sparse compared to what he'd had in Baltimore, and all the layers and restriction would surely agitate the wounds anyway.

After Will delivers his safeword (well, _words_ because leave it to him a to pick two and go against the grain in this as well), Hannibal gives a short nod and Will thinks he can see pride. At least a little. Will's cheeks are faintly tinged in color because Chiyoh is completely oblivious to what she's just witnessed. Is this some monumental moment for them? The edge of a cliff and Will's jumping off, hoping his wing is mended so that he can fly? Surely what transpires _afterward_ , _after_ dinner is what matters. This is Will signing along the dotted line.

Will's bruises are visible from underneath a crisp white collar. When Hannibal greets him, Chiyoh follows suit. She looks equally displeased and bewildered, but they're contained emotions, delicate ripples across a pond that don't cause much disturbance. Will nods his 'hello' back, settling into the chair, his right hand uselessly on his lap. When Hannibal comments about what's on their plates, or more specifically who is responsible for it (Chiyoh ), Will understands the look. He glances down at his plate and gives it a curious whiff.

"Fish looks and smells beautiful," Will remarks. It's the truth. Fish is comfort food and it has his nerves easing some. With that said, Will goes to work. It takes patience to use his non-dominant hand to wield only one utensil. While he _could_ gingerly use his other hand, Will doesn't want to aggravate his shoulder anymore than necessary and he's sure as shit not going to ask for Hannibal or Chiyoh to cut up his fish either. He _manages_ , he just has to be careful. Most of the meal has Will looking down at his plate and not trying to fidget.

* * *

Will's response to Chiyoh is precisely what Hannibal had intended it to be. There's definite pride in his eyes after Will's comment, particularly considering the way Chiyoh immediately looks up at him. It's subtle, little more than a sidelong glance, but her surprise is clear. Hannibal makes a point to be looking away when Chiyoh glances at him curiously and while her suspicion is clear, she says nothing. Instead Hannibal watches her give a near-gracious nod as she cuts a piece from her own salmon to begin her meal.

Hannibal's attention is split. He doesn't force Will to converse during dinner, and he does speak with Chiyoh throughout, but he doesn't speak in Japanese. Their conversation is strictly limited to English (and for all Chiyoh might not like it, she complies when she sees the look in Hannibal's eyes). The topics are safe - Hannibal complimenting her on the quality of the meal and the two of them discussing necessary items that need to be picked up before too long. Unfortunately Hannibal and Will are not well enough to go and make any purchases themselves and so Chiyoh is the one left to agree. She doesn't complain, merely rising to find herself a notepad and she jots down Hannibal's suggestions once she's able. Hannibal makes a point to glance at Will a few times, engaging him in the conversation even if he doesn't expect him to answer verbally. Will is understandably distracted, his eyes downcast, and while Hannibal wonders if Will is going to ask for assistance with his meal a few times, he doesn't. Hannibal doesn't offer. He will not wrest Will's pride away from him in front of an audience.

Dinner is ultimately satisfying, and Chiyoh is given a relatively extensive list following the meal. In the end - much to Hannibal's satisfaction - she is the one to suggest leaving to pick up the grocery items and clothing. They need far more than they have, and given that Hannibal is a wanted man and Will is likely equally wanted by now, it's not safe to venture out.

Hannibal gestures Chiyoh into leaving, promising to stay in contact if her services are required, and only once she's left does he glance over at Will. For a moment he studies his companion, the look on his face. Then Hannibal rises calmly, like the act _isn't_ agonizing.

"Would you assist me with the dishes, Will? It shouldn't take more than a few minutes."

* * *

At least no Japanese is spoken. It has Will feeling more at ease. He's pouring most of his concentration into battling the lack of dexterity in his left hand while trying to cut with his fork and not create a mess. Eating alone has allowed him privacy to struggle with such tasks (or just use his fingers) but now that they're playing at a happy family dinner, Will needs to mind his manners. He appreciates that no one offers him any help (it would have been Hannibal giving Chiyoh a look and then Chiyoh begrudgingly doing it -- yeah, no thanks). He does answer Hannibal when he asks about his pain level (mild) and confirms that he wouldn't mind a couple more loose fitting t-shirts.

Even if he doesn't like having to depend on her (or anyone), Will's glad Chiyoh is heading out. He's sure Hannibal could have simply sent her away or whatever, but Will would much rather prefer their first time doing _this_ whole thing without Chiyoh present. He doesn't even know what Hannibal has planned for them. Will's not really experienced in this type of activity. Yeah, maybe he's been a bit rough in bed before with women, but it seemed like a more typical thing nowadays... But Will has seen some interesting things online, rope bondage, gags, riding crops. It seems like a Pandora's box.

Will meets Hannibal's eyes and swallows as a shiver creeps down his spine. His right hand taps nervously against his thigh. What now?

Dishes. Apparently. Will doesn't know what expression crosses his face, but he glances to the table and fuck it, it makes sense to take care of the dishes first. He has _some_ patience.

"Yeah, sure," Will replies and pushes his chair out. He begins gathering the plates, stacking them up one by one with the utensils on the top one. He hears Hannibal begin filling the sink with water.

"You ever... Done anything like this with a partner before?" He brings the plates over to Hannibal and places them beside the sink. He hopes Hannibal doesn't make him explain what he means.

* * *

Will takes the initiative to gather the dishes despite his arm. Hannibal watches him, curious, silently observant and pleased that Will hadn't set up a fuss over the request. Instead he seems relatively patient even through his nerves. Hannibal watches him for a few moments as he walks to the sink in order to begin filling it and its twin with relatively hot water. If Will can handle the dishes despite the pain and weakness of his arm then Hannibal can handle his own pain. He does lean heavily against the counter, though at least has the skill to make it look intentional instead of necessary. Hannibal tests the water with his hand, then nods, adding a few drops of a clear dish soap that smells of a medley of citrus, and then glances back at Will curiously following his question.

Hannibal considers making Will elaborate but in the end, he decides against it. That Will is even asking is worthy of acknowledgement as Hannibal can guess how much courage it must have taken to speak up.

"Have I ever been dominant with a partner before? Yes," Hannibal says, watching as Will walks over and sets the plates down beside the sink. Hannibal looks at Will approvingly and reaches down simply to unbutton the cuffs around his wrists. He rolls his slate blue sleeves up to the elbow and then reaches over for the dishes, submerging them in the water. He hands Will a dish towel.

"I'll wash, you dry." It isn't a request, though it's phrased gently.

"As I was saying, yes. I have been dominant before. Nothing extensive, and nothing official. Occasional requests from women too embarrassed to try it more than twice, generally. I'm aware of what I'm doing, if that is what you were attempting to ask me," Hannibal adds, with a curl of something would-be-amused in his voice. As he speaks, he takes each dish to wash it properly, then settles it into the second sink to rinse the soap from it. There is a dishwasher here but Hannibal wishes to do this manually for reasons beyond preference. He nods to the first dish pointedly and the takes another plate to wash, breathing slow against the pain in his back.

* * *

Even though Will knows the answer is probably going to be a yes, he's not entirely prepared for the flare of irrational jealousy that surges when Hannibal confirms previous experience. Hannibal is older than him. Hannibal's probably been more successful in romance and sex than he's ever been; it all makes sense and yet it bothers Will on some level (jealousy is so petty). Oh, Will can see the practical benefits of it. Hannibal having experience helps _him_ now, but fuck. What if he doesn't compare? What if he falls short in some way? The idea of disappointment leading to an inevitable rejection agitates him more than he'd like. (He'd been so damn certain before, walking in the catacombs, tugged along by the red string. What if he's just a puppet and they're not conjoined at all?)

He's effectively then ordered to dry like they aren't having this type of conversation during such a chore. Will's mostly focusing on his own worries and he doesn't hesitate to comply. He grabs a dish towel and comes to stand by the drying rack. Things only gets worse because when Hannibal continues he only mentions _women_ and... Will can't help but stampede forward.

"Have you ever been with a man, you know, sexually? Are you even attracted to me, or am I just fucked up enough to appeal and my gender is more or less tolerated in this?"

Hannibal had said their desires were the same, but it's Will who's been the one getting aroused and asking for shit. Hannibal hasn't even kissed him.

* * *

Will Graham is such a curious man. He's abrasive, surging ahead one moment like a spirited stallion and then skipping a few paces back like a frightened colt. He imagines he can see Will all but pawing at the ground now, as while Will does comply and help him dry the dishes, his expression is darker and clouded. Will might be physically present but he's not all there in his mind, dashing off to worry about certain things Hannibal cannot see. So Hannibal simply dries the dishes - the three plates and corresponding utensils and glasses - and after each one, he sets them aside to rinse and then dry. He waits, and sure enough, it doesn't take too long for Will to find his voice again. Unsurprisingly, it appears Will has already gone off in his head. Hannibal glances at him.

He takes a moment to remove his hands from the dishwater and then takes a different towel to dry them. Then he reaches one hand over and presses it against Will's nape. Hannibal holds him fast, pressing in just enough and just suddenly enough to get Will's attention on _him_.

"I have some sexual experience with a man, though it is quite limited. I have never been physically attracted to one before you, though." Hannibal's thumb presses in just barely behind Will's ear, pushing until it likely passes by sensitivity and edges into discomfort. "I am attracted to the mind more than I am to the body. Sexual attraction to a physical aspect of one's body is rare for me. But yes, Will," Hannibal adds, with a pointed glance at him. "I am attracted to you. In every way." His grip eases and his fingers instead give a little stroke to the side of Will's neck.

"Do you have sexual experience with men, Will? Or is this attraction a first?"

* * *

Will may have grabbed a dish towel, but he's been standing with it in his hand doing nothing productive because his thoughts are more pressing. (He has no problem handwashing dishes as his place in Wolf Trap had no dishwasher, although he simply left his out to drip.) This isn't a conversation Will necessarily _wants_ to be having over a domestic chore, but at least Hannibal isn't staring him down like they had been in a former session. Sure, Will could have waited for a better time to inquire, but he's curious and he wants to know _now_.

It's foolish to be bothered by Hannibal's past relations, but Will is still irked that Hannibal had fucked around with Alana (and that he'd sent Margot his way too). Will is still bothered by the idea that Hannibal is generally more experienced than he is. And now there's gender thing. What if Will sucks and Hannibal realizes he wants nothing to do with his dick?

A hand suddenly comes to his neck, gripping tightly enough to jolt Will out of his thoughts. He tenses from the abrupt contact but doesn't make to pull away. It also has him feeling a hint of arousal because this is _Hannibal's_ hand wrapped around the back of neck, underneath the collar, skin against skin and Will has the sick realization that right now he's an abandoned dog desperate for attention. It's not something he's proud over. Being desperate is a pathetic state to find oneself in because it's _weakness_. Will's breathing is a little quicker as he listens. Hannibal has 'some sexual experience' but he's never been physically attracted to a man (before him). Will doesn't know if he really believes that; he's far from the norm of what's considered to be attractive. A thumb slides to behind his ear, pushing uncomfortably, and Will's breath audibly hitches. Hannibal reaffirms that he's interested in 'every way' but Will has yet to see any _proof_ of that. Hannibal's kissed his knuckles like some bizarre courting act, but that was it...

When the question is turned around to him, Will's hands come to grip the counter for support, the unused dishcloth under one. "I kissed a guy in college," Will answers with a small shrug. He's fairly certain Hannibal's limited experience is more than that. "I've never been exactly great with people to begin with and never sought out a man. Seemed like an added complication."

* * *

This is a very important conversation to have. The topic of sexual history and experience while seeking out something new and unfamiliar is a simple way to ensure both partners are on the same page. Whether or not it's appropriate to have this conversation while washing dishes is another matter altogether. Yet Will has clearly made his choice, and though it does take Hannibal a moment to get Will's attention back on him after it seems to race off, he manages. Hannibal's very aware that the speed of each of Will's breaths has increased and though the scent is obscured by the dish soap and the remnants of dinner, he can still smell Will's own unique scent. It's grown thicker between them. One glance is all it takes for Hannibal to note the mild flush to Will's skin; he's growing aroused.

Hannibal watches Will grip the counter and his gaze flicks between the dish towel in Will's hands and the dishes left where they are. Air drying can be much more effective, but _this_ isn't what Hannibal had told Will to do. Perhaps the moment has not started yet, but that doesn't mean Hannibal isn't doing his own tests.

He listens to Will and remains impassive when he notes the lack of Will's personal history. Will's experience is not a concern, though it does give Hannibal a starting point. Rushing won't be tolerated well if Will doesn't have experience. Granted, Hannibal had already known that given the way Will keeps surging ahead and then jerking away. But before they continue, first things first...

"The dishes, Will," Hannibal reminds him, firmly but gently. "Do you have any reservations about intimacy with a man that I should know about?"

* * *

Will doesn't want to be easy like this. He doesn't want a fucking hand on the back of his neck to mean so much or for Hannibal's presence beside him to affect him so. He feels unhinged and scattered. He's hotter, breathing a little quicker, pulse elevated -- all signs of sexual arousal and Will's certain that Hannibal is aware of it too. Will's never had a lot of sex. The last time would have been fucking Margot Verger c/o Hannibal. Christ. Still, Will is embarrassed at his reaction and he's thinking that he should have masturbated earlier to try and fend this off. He doesn't want a mere touch on his neck to work him up.

_'The dishes, Will.'_

It's not quite a reprimand, but it has Will frowning nonetheless (the dishes could dry just fine if left out). As he glances at the rack, Hannibal's next question comes and Will scoffs as he reaches for the utensils with the cloth in his left hand.

"Intimacy with a _man_?" Will repeats back. "Don't you mean intimacy with _you_? I was under the impression that you wouldn't be sharing me. You have another patient you're going to send my way?" This... This isn't a great thing to bring up. Will understands Hannibal is trying to be delicate, but he doesn't _want_ that right now.

* * *

Hannibal is quiet as Will reaches for the utensils, nodding a brief note of satisfaction. He'd selected Will's task pointedly as Will _can_ still grip a dish in one hand while drying it in another without too much discomfort. Provided he keeps his arm stable, it shouldn't be a problem. The real problem rests with Will's distraction. Hannibal glances at him from his peripheral vision and he can almost see the small fissures working their way through Will's composure. He can scent and witness his arousal. Hannibal traces his fingers along the side of Will's neck, a constant pressure that he doesn't draw away despite Will's sharp tongue. He simply watches as Will begins to dry and then he gives Will's neck a small squeeze with the flat of his hand, an approving warmth against Will's nape. He can disapprove of Will's words while approving of his obedience.

"I have no intention of sharing you," Hannibal replies simply, though there is an edge to his tone that hints at something darker. Hannibal hides it well. Whether it's jealousy or anger or possession is left up to Will's interpretation. His hand doesn't move away. "And while we _could_ discuss Margot - or perhaps Tier, if that was your intention -" it's not, and Hannibal knows it "- I would prefer to limit our conversation to you and I. If you object to my attempt to be tactful, I have no problems in clarifying. Yes, Will. I meant intimacy with _me_."

Hannibal glances at Will and his attention is fixed. This is the problem with Will dragging his feet regarding the task Hannibal had asked him to complete. With the dishes washed, Hannibal is left merely observing him, and he has no plans to stop. This is an assessment as much as it is a test.

"Do you have any reservations about intimacy with me, Will? Aside from your impatience."

* * *

Will dries off the utensil and places it down on clean countertop before reaching for another with his left hand. He then passes it to his right hand that he doesn't raise past his chest, grips the stem of the utensil, and then dries it with his left. It's annoying and he still curses Chiyoh every time he jolts his shoulder. Hannibal's touch remains, it's both a reward and a distraction, but Will doesn't want it to abate. Despite Will's egging, Hannibal remains unflappable and thankfully the hand on Will's neck doesn't lift off. Hannibal's claim of having no intention on sharing him is blunt and satisfying. Will isn't going to share either. Hannibal keeps them on track easily and turns his nose up at the bait. He doesn't even sound perturbed in the least. That fucking composure (he wants to tear it apart, piece by piece so he isn't the only one in tatters)... Will's left hand purposefully drops the fork on the countertop so it _clangs._

He picks up the remaining utensils, now a jangling bunch in his hand. Will can feel Hannibal staring at him now and he begins to dry faster, wanting to get this over with and move onto whatever's _next_. He bites his lip before taking a steadying breath in. Reservations about intimacy. He thinks about Hannibal watching him open his mouth and place the ortolan on his tongue, Hannibal watching him bite down and hearing and feeling the snap of bones in his mouth all under Hannibal's intense gaze. He remembers while having sex with Margot he'd fantasized about Hannibal and Alana (and then the fucking wendigo...) Will's hands have now stopped moving. He's now noticeably hard and he steps closer to the counter, for all the good it will do.

"I don't know. I just want... You. More than I should. More than I've wanted anything in my life."

* * *

To Will's credit, he does try a few dishes when Hannibal pointedly watches him. Hannibal's satisfied that Will is making an effort to do as he'd been told, but he does also note Will's mild tremors. He notices the small winces and makes silent mental notes to himself. To Will, this is simply a domestic chore. For Hannibal, it's an assessment. So when Will suddenly drops the fork onto the counter and it clatters loudly, Hannibal's frown is mild but he adds 'easily frustrated' to his mental list. Hannibal merely reaches over with one hand and rearranges the fork with one finger, lining it up with its counterpart. Between them, he can see Will getting hard, his pants tenting noticeably in a way that is _exceedingly_ tempting, but Hannibal reigns in his own urge.

It isn't until Will picks up _all_ the utensils at once that Hannibal's frown deepens. For a moment he considers removing his hand. In the end, he decides to keep it there, though he does note the sudden speed of Will's movements. Reckless. Easily Frustrated. _Impatient_. The list grows as Will moves, and Hannibal's gaze is fixed as Will's lower lip catches between his teeth and pales beautifully.

By the time Will answers him, there's a heady aroma between them and he's hard enough to be obvious. Hannibal watches Will step forward with some amusement. _Insecure_. His thumb and forefinger press a little harder on either side of Will's neck to ground him, and he feels the thrumming of Will's pulse under his fingers. Yet despite Hannibal's composure, there's no way he can pretend that he's not pleased to hear that Will wants him. It's not an answer to his question, but it's enough to infer meaning from. Hannibal's quiet until Will goes silent. Then he reaches over with his free hand and gently gathers the utensils from Will's hand. He sets the four remaining utensils down across from the others and then picks up one of the knives. Hannibal is quiet as he presses the handle against Will's hand, over the dish towel.

"One at a time," Hannibal instructs firmly. "Unless I tell you otherwise."

It's the first _real_ command he's given, and there's no shame in Hannibal's eyes as he reveals his hand to Will - that this has been domination the whole time. "Would it help you to know that the feeling is mutual, Will? You are singularly the most disruptive, reckless influence in my life, and yet I cannot help my desire for you."

* * *

Will's never let himself care what others have thought about him. He'd been fine by himself and in the company of his dogs. He was guarded and his prickly nature kept most people away. He got by; he managed. By not letting anyone in, he was safe and things had been simple (not easy, but simpler). He couldn't disappoint anyone. He didn't need to worry about not measuring up. The solitary life had been what he was used to. Until Jack had pulled him in, using guilt as a motivator, and then he'd been thrown at Hannibal Lecter's chomping jaws. Now Will finds himself completely at odds how to deal with actually giving a shit about Hannibal's opinion of him. Hannibal's thoughts, his feelings, his desires... The concepts are more than daunting, but he can't escape them now that they're in his orbit. He gravitates around Hannibal and Will knows he doesn't want to break free (if he even could).

After he's answered, Hannibal's grip tightens with his thumb and forefinger digging in with more force than necessary. Will flinches but still doesn't try and make to pull away. Maybe it's exactly the force needed because Will feels more quieted by it. It has him curious about what else Hannibal could do.

When Hannibal takes the fistful of silverware from him Will is expecting to be reprimanded for not drying properly (must fight the water spots!). Instead, Hannibal puts them down and hands him the handle of a knife. Instantly he has a flash of a memory. (Hannibal had handed him a knife to cut ginger for the 'long pig' and Will had his first real glimpse at the scars Matthew Brown had crafted.) Will blinks and he closes his fingers over the handle. Hannibal gives him instructions (' _one at a time... Unless I tell you otherwise'_ ) and it then clicks with Will that _this_ _all_ had been a test. Coming down to dinner, stating his safeword, the dishes, the drying... They've been a series of orders that he's been obeying.

Arousal and irritation flare, a dual heat that fills Will. He focuses on thoroughly drying one stupid utensil at a time, making certain to line them up on the counter for Hannibal. The task helps him hear Hannibal's next statement. Mutual feeling... The most disruptive, reckless influence. Will takes a deep inhalation and feels his chest expand before breathing out slowly.

"I don't know if it helps," Will admits shakily. "I feel alone still. Like you're in some ivory tower. Impassively looking down at me. You say the words, but they come from behind a mask... I dreamed that I tried to climb up Pazzi's entrails to try and get to you. Couldn't do it."

His scar burns, Will itches to touch it, but he continues drying the goddamn dishes.

* * *

Recognition flickers brightly behind Will's eyes and Hannibal's expression remains firm. He doesn't smile, but warmth does register for a moment in his eyes as Will merely looks down at the knife in his hand. Then, without complaint, Will focuses his attention on drying the knife he'd been given. He does it well, focusing in even strokes, taking care around the blade, and Hannibal hums an almost-silent sound of approval in the back of his throat. He can see Will's irritation behind his understanding but instead of lashing out at him, Will does as he's told. Hannibal watches as he sets the first knife down next to the fork on the counter, aligning it in a way Hannibal hadn't told him to do. Given the position of the two utensils before it, Will had known to continue the pattern. Reckless. Easily Frustrated. Impatient. Insecure. _Intelligent. Intuitive_.

Will continues the pattern, taking to instruction like a duck to water, and when he answers Hannibal's question, it's with an honesty that Hannibal hadn't been expecting. He's quiet as he listens, his fingers lessening their pinch on Will's nape to instead lay his palm flat over the skin. It's a transfer of warmth and pressure, broader, aimed to calm Will's uncertainty without drawing attention to it.

"You're not alone Will. I'm standing right beside you," Hannibal says, both for the reminder and because it's true. He watches as each dish is methodically dried, and when he hands Will the first plate, he waits until it's been thoroughly dried, then points to a place on the counter for it to be set down on. He taps the counter pointedly.

"I am a guarded man by nature, but that doesn't mean that I don't feel what you feel, Will. That I don't want you with equal fervor. That you don't haunt my dreams." He squeezes Will's nape and allows his posture to soften ever so slightly. "Entrails hardly make the best rope. Perhaps had you stated your intention, I would have merely lowered a ladder. You struggle with the idea that I might want you and you continue to ruminate over how to reach me when I'm already next to you. You're a panicked dog chasing its tail in circles, Will."

Hannibal leans in then, just enough to bend so that he can speak into Will's ear. His voice is mild, but low. "That said, you're doing well. Exactly as I've asked."

* * *

Will's not an idiot. He knows if he loses his temper here and storms out there's no guarantee for another chance. Or, if there would be another attempt, it would be after more time and proving himself in some way. So, while he hadn't been expecting to submit and follow instructions (orders) during the measly clean up, Will's going to try and be level headed and do the task as Hannibal wishes him to do it. One stupid utensil at a time, dried off and then lined up on the counter.

Hannibal had claimed the same thing before -- that Will wasn't alone in the darkness. But claims are constructed from words. Hannibal could assert whatever he wanted, but it didn't make it true. Will doesn't necessarily think Hannibal is lying per se, but proximity doesn't always correlate with a decrease in loneliness. Hannibal hands him a plate and Will takes it, fixing his eyes down as he slowly and carefully dries it. Even now, there's the urge to let it fall to the floor and break (it may not be a teacup but it would do).

He refrains. Next, Hannibal points where he wants this dish to be placed and then fucking _taps_ the counter as if Will wouldn't have understood the first gesture. Prick.

Will begrudgingly sets the plate in the correct spot, but he becomes rapt as he listens to Hannibal's words. Equal fervor. Haunting dreams. Of course, Hannibal's dumb comment about him needing to ask for a ladder has Will nearly rolling his eyes, for it had taken place in his dream and dreams were hardly rational. Being compared to a dog chasing its own tail compounds the aggravation. Will is reaching for the next plate when Hannibal leans in and decides to compliment him. Will shivers from the lower tone and Hannibal's breath against his ear. (Yes, they're only words, but he fucking feels the warmth and it matters.)

"Giving me a treat now?" Will asks and forces his hand to pick up the dish and resume the task. "You going to train me? Have me heel by your side and sit at your feet?" Despite the insinuation, there's no real heat behind his words. There's only embarrassment being overridden by arousal and curiosity.

* * *

That Will has managed to maintain his focus through this is nothing short of impressive. Hannibal can see the irritation burning like fire beneath Will's skin and yet he doesn't rise to the bait. He merely allows Hannibal's words to roll off of him, allows the insinuations to fall as they may. It shows promise, for Hannibal knows first-hand how impulsive Will can be. The bruises clear on his throat say as much, after all. Hannibal admires them as Will goes still, and continues to admire them even after Will has taken the plate and begun to dry it. Instead of a snarled response, Will's reply is measured. There's no heat, merely curiosity and embarrassment. Hannibal is pleased.

"If you do well, you deserve to be rewarded," he replies simply, in a tone that implies this should be common knowledge, but it holds no judgement. He'd not missed Will's shiver, and so Hannibal makes a point to remain exactly where he is, to speak close to Will's ear. If this helps him focus, he's willing to court this idea.

"I have no desire to train you, but I _do_ hope to get you accustomed to knowing what you may expect. While my decisions might be surprising by times, the basics will not be. If you do well, you will be rewarded. If you intentionally go against something I've asked, without employing your safe word, you will be reprimanded. If the behavior continues, you will be punished."

It's safe and predictable, and despite how slow this will start, how impatient he already knows Will is going to be, this is a solid foundation to build upon. Will doesn't trust him. Hannibal isn't certain he trusts Will. Transparency and simplicity and repetitive conditioning to build confidence and security will only be of benefit.

"That said, you _always_ have the option of employing your safe word. If you're uncertain and require an explanation or something is _becoming_ too much to handle, you may say 'yellow'. Can you think of anything immediately you'd like to avoid? Assume behavior for now. Kneeling, holding uncomfortable positions, eye contact...?"

* * *

The world didn't follow the same rules as Hannibal because the world didn't often give anyone a part on the back or a break. At least not for adults. Will had more experience _not_ receiving much or any gratitude after a job well done (and he certainly hadn't been _expecting_ it from the likes of Jack). It had been his job to try and _save_ people by way of identifying with killers, diving into twisted minds and interpreting the evidence. Now he's _here_ playing Hannibal's second wife of sorts and getting praise for doing the dishes the Hannibal-approved way. (The part of him that wants to shatter the plate... is it the same as the part that still wants to see Hannibal locked up?)

Hannibal goes on, speaking of potentially surprising decisions, of Will being reprimanded if he intentionally fucks up, of _punishment_ if said fuck ups continued. He doesn't know how to feel about it, he's drying the dish a little slower now. Hannibal's close and it's distracting. There _is_ a relief that comes with having an option other than his safeword; he can use 'yellow' and have things slow down and get an explanation if needed... _Yellow._ Like a stoplight. Stoplights to control and regulate traffic, but stoplights didn't do shit against those who swerved into oncoming traffic. (He may not be driving any time soon, but he has a cliff--)

Will shakes his head and resists the urge to rub at his face. Focus, Graham. Things he wants to avoid. Behavior. Hannibal lists kneeling, holding uncomfortable positions and eye contact. Will hadn't thought of the last two, but now Will's starting to think his idea of where this is going doesn't exactly line up with Hannibal's. Great.

"No?" He answers as he places the plate on top of the previously dried one. "I don't know. I don't think so. Like I said earlier, I've never done this before." He doesn't really know what to expect now, but instead of voicing that, Will is going to attempt to go with the flow. He's sure he can handle it. How bad could it get?

* * *

Hannibal notes Will's hesitation in silence. Perhaps in a way this is breaking down a few secrets of the position Will has asked him to assume for him, but Hannibal wishes to establish foundation before he does anything else. Classical conditioning is proven and effective. While he has no desire to _train_ Will Graham (beyond a mild impulse that believes it would be quite fascinating and rewarding), he does want to establish trust and routine. He remembers Will's house and its chaotic disarray in the living area, but he _also_ remembers the way Will had meticulously folded his shirts and socks. Everything in his drawers had a place. Will thrives on order even if his surface is chaotic. Hannibal can facilitate that like this, but it will take time.

If Will understands ground rules then he will feel secure. If he _knows_ that he has the power to stop a scene, it will lessen some of the fear. If he _knows_ that if he's good, he'll get a reward, he'll be more inclined to behave. If he _knows_ a reprimand is the first warning before a punishment, failure won't scare him quite as much. Hannibal already knows Will is going to intentionally chase a punishment. He knows Will is going to be frustrated with the direction he intends to take this. Yet as much as Will aches for physical stimulation, he _needs_ emotional security far more. He is a moth flying recklessly around a flame and Hannibal intends to rein him in.

"As we go, if that changes, you are to tell me. _Trust_ is the most important part of an arrangement like this, Will. I need to trust you just as much as you need to trust me. I'm aware that will be difficult for you, but it should grow as we do. As you experience more, I will ask you to assess something we've done to know whether it's something you wish to repeat. There will be times I will ask you to do something you do not fully understand. I ask that you give the suggestions a chance," Hannibal adds, looking sidelong at him.

"Do you understand, Will? And do you still wish to do this?”

* * *

Anything Hannibal decides for him to do is surely going to be better than the limbo Will feels like he's been in the past week. At least that's what Will is hoping for. Is he a dog that's now desperate for scraps to be fed to him by Hannibal's hand? Just earlier Hannibal had said he was chasing his fucking tail. And if he _is_ a dog in this circumstance, is that really such a bad thing? (He can have a collar and a red leash now. _Red_. Always red.) Will doesn't know if he gets to have any pride. He's the one that, despite a very obvious rejection, had sailed across an ocean in search of Hannibal. He's the one that, despite being choked and left _again_ , had sought out Hannibal and had reached for the knife.

Hannibal speaks of trust, but Will has more evidence of Hannibal betraying and hurting him (the encephalitis, setting him up, snatching away Abigail, gutting him, leaving him...). Jack and Alana have also betrayed him by believing in his guilt...But Will's also betrayed each of them in turn too. The cast of this particular play have each been hurt and from the entanglements surrounding their involvement with the very man he's now doing the dishes for. It should seem crazier to be here, but Will knows he's alive and not dreaming. The itch of healing skin across his forehead and the side of his face and the throb of his shoulder remind him of reality. Will wonders if the _them_ in the other worlds ever manages to have intimacy without pain and hurt being a precursor.

Hannibal makes this undertaking sound like school work almost -- the difficulty, the assessing, giving things a chance even if he doesn't full understand. Will takes the last plate and dries it carefully despite the urge to answer back quickly. He places the plate on top of the others. He sees the fillet knife waiting in the rack. (He remembers seeing his reflection in a blade Hannibal had handed him years ago in Hannibal's kitchen.) Will takes it in his left hand and brings it up to his neck, the blade pressing against bruises but not yet breaking skin. Hannibal is almost standing behind him, just like he had with Abigail and how Abigail's father had done before him.

"Would you find me in the afterlife, Hannibal?" Will asks, his voice sounding far away but curious. There's something undeniably romantic about such a notion. "I could join her... Or you could just give me another scar. I could match Abigail." Will hears what he's saying, but he feels disconnected from it. Hadn't he claimed to _not_ be suicidal, to _not_ want to jump off the cliff? He has enough wounds on the mend--

But it's fucking kitchens. It's knives. It's Hannibal maddeningly close to him and it's the confusing arousal that he now knows Hannibal isn't going to do anything about. It's Hannibal saying he's next to him, that the want is mutual, but Will can't feel it.

* * *

Ultimately this is a lesson in Will's particular level of psychosis, or it will be when Hannibal manages to think on this later. One moment he's detailing his own plans, outlining the guidelines in an effort to temper Will back down, to give him structure to cling to even when he doesn't understand what's happening. If Will understands the boring _why_ then he'll be better able to withstand Hannibal's requests. So this is an important part of the architecture of their budding relationship. Yet the next moment - as his attention drifts to thoughts of how best to introduce Will to the concept of submission - Will calmly sets down the final plate and Hannibal is briefly lost in thought as Will's attention falls on the knife.

The next thing Hannibal knows, the knife is in Will's hand, and then it's at Will's throat. He sees the glint of steel and feels his pulse kick into high gear, stuttering and stopping in his chest in alarm before it surges ahead. Hannibal freezes and beside him, Will gazes at nothing. To Hannibal, this has come from nowhere. He's not privy to Will's thoughts and musing. All he knows is that one moment he'd been talking about submission and safety and the next Will had had a knife to his throat. He almost holds his breath, hardly daring to so much as blink. He stills like a knife has been pressed to _his_ throat.

He thinks of Chiyoh, of the way she'd told him that Will had been favoring thoughts of the bluff, of throwing himself from it. And whether or not this is a serious attempt, it's serious enough. Hannibal's focus shifts in a heartbeat. He quickly assesses the press of the knife and the angle of Will's hand, his gaze darting to Will's throat to ensure Will's not in immediate risk. It takes a half a second for Hannibal to look, and then another three seconds to act.

One hand grabs Will's wrist to hold it steady and the other suddenly jabs out towards the side of Will's chest. The blow Hannibal doles out is sharp and pointed, aimed directly at the brachial plexus to disrupt sensation in the nerves in Will's hand. Without nerves, there is no grip, and without a grip, the knife is useless. Hannibal snatches it quickly from briefly-numb fingers, and he tosses the knife back into the water. There are no words for the flare of anger in his eyes as he looks at Will and then suddenly his own hand is shooting out, his fingers wrapping around Will's throat.

"And that, I believe, is my answer. I assumed you were ready and I can see now that _obedience_ is not on your mind."

* * *

Less than ten minutes ago Will had decided to try and remain level headed because he hadn't wanted to blow his chance with the proposed undertaking. He'd been doing okay with drying the dishes and even conversing with Hannibal. He'd behaved. Where had his common sense went? Wiped away, dried up, gone and Will is now left with destructive urges and trickles of thoughts that shouldn't be indulged.

But he's acted, he's grabbed the fillet knife and brought the blade to his neck. Will's voiced the whispers trapped within his mind, he's released them like slithering snakes into the grass and it's chaos that erupts.

It's Will finally _seeing_ , his hand shaking and pointing the gun at Hannibal in the Hobbs' kitchen. It's the rain pouring down on Alana's broken body splayed outside Hannibal's home. It's Abigail shaking with wide eyes stuttering about just doing what _he_ wanted. It's Hannibal being simultaneously tender and brutal, both holding him and gutting him. It's the three of them bleeding out on Hannibal's kitchen floor, Abigail, the stag and himself. It's him talking quietly with Jack and explaining that Hannibal was his friend. It's him getting to his knees underneath a chapel. It's him giving the despicable beauty, being pushed from a train and shot. It's Hannibal jabbing a needle into him and Will weakly clutching and--

It's always violence with them. It always ends up with hurting one way or another, doesn't it? He thinks of the bruises on his neck, how he might as well have Hannibal guide his hand and cut on top of them. Gashes on bruises, scars on top of scars... Hannibal had cut over Garret Jacob Hobbs' scar. Fear radiates through Will at the memory of Abigail Hobbs rising from the ashes to then have her wings torn off.

_His hand is outstretched to me. I shouldn't take it, but I have no choice. He gives me an almost impatient look. It's the kind of look where I obey automatically. I move to Hannibal and he pulls me against his chest. Will? Help me... Is he going to actually kill me? Help me! The blade is against my neck, against my father's scar-- I don't want to die! Please--_

Hannibal reacts quickly and the flash of memories dissipates. The familiar chaos becomes disjointed as Will's wrist is grabbed, he's effectively hit, sending a numbness down to the hand on the handle and his forgiveness is wrenched away and dropped into the sink.

 _('You dropped your forgiveness, Will...'_ No knives for him. _)_

Hannibal's hand wraps around his throat and Will is shaking, eyes blinking and trying to focus on the ridiculous stacked and lined up dishes. Kitchens. Fucking kitchens.

"Do it," Will hisses. He sounds manic. He's sweating, the nicer clothing sticking to him and feeling all wrong against his skin. Not _him._ Not _his._

"Kill me, you might as well," Will cries. "You'll do it eventually. You wanted to a week ago! You protected her, she trusted you and you-you...”

* * *

There is no logic in mania. Hannibal had been a surgeon for long enough to witness anesthesia-induced mania and when his practice had shifted to issues of the mind, he'd been introduced to a fuller spectrum. He's seen mania in all its forms, from post-traumatic psychosis to paranoia. He's witnessed individuals tormented by the cracks in their own minds and he's seen people turn against their families. He's seen lows and highs and so this sudden break from Will makes _sense_ but Hannibal's disappointment and anger are difficult to rein in. Expectations means trusting another not to break them, and in this moment, Will has done just that. There is no rhyme or reason for Hannibal's hand to be so tight on Will's throat and for a moment, he considers throwing his forearm around Will's throat and choking him out as he had in the catacombs. It's not off the table.

There's a fine tremor in his hand from adrenaline as he turns Will around and shoves him bodily back against the counter. The dishes at his back clatter unhappily as they're shoved back and the neat line of cutlery bends and a fork dips perilously off the end of the counter but doesn't fall. Hannibal's breathing is rougher, his expression granite, and his grip firm. Will blinks, struggling through something Hannibal can understand, but whether or not he can _forgive_ it is another matter altogether.

It's trauma. He doesn't need to know Will intimately to know what this is. When Will finally speaks, his voice a tight, manic cry, it only cements Hannibal's beliefs. He accuses, he challenges, and the memory of what he'd _almost_ done to Will a week ago is enough to darken his expression. He stays silent, jaw set so tightly that the muscles bulge. Though there is nothing in the world that can prepare him for Will mentioning _her_.

Abigail Hobbs. Something firm and sharp in Hannibal's chest suddenly cracks, shards of ice - of solid rock - chipping and falling away. He stands straighter and the flicker of regret, of _hurt_ , fizzles and dies as he draws his mask back up around himself. Cool and collected to offset Will's fire and chaos, that's what this is.

"And I trusted you. It appears we are _both_ cut from a similar cloth. The only difference is that Abigail understood. I told her that if I killed her, it would be the way her father had intended it. She made her peace, Will. You haven't." He draws in a sharper breath, feeling Will's pulse pound under his hand.

"I won't kill you, and you won't kill yourself. If I have to bind your hands to save you from your own _recklessness_ then so be it. If you were having suicidal ideologies, Will, that was something you should have mentioned to me _prior_ to this. Were you hoping I'd hurt you? Maim or disfigure you? You think little of me, clearly. _How_ little, I wonder?"

* * *

Hannibal manhandles him, spinning him around and pushing him into the counter. Will feels his heart pounding, he's trembling, eyes wide but refusing to look up at Hannibal's face. Even if a part of him wishes for his own extinction - for Hannibal to kill him - he's afraid. Will's not a exactly a small and delicate man, he's healthy enough, but he knows Hannibal is stronger than him. Hannibal, who has been lugging around corpses for decades and obviously putting in an effort to stay in shape. Hannibal _could_ kill him. Right now, in this kitchen. Another kitchen bloodbath.

Does Will _want_ to die, or does he simply want to escape from this strife, painful memories that bleed over his present reality? But wasn't Hannibal was supposed to be his goal? The treasure. Follow along the dotted line, and X marks the spot. Isn't Hannibal his 'X?' All possibilities, all paths converging to lead him here and to this man, their unbreakable thread--

But kitchens and knives and trauma have a way of dredging up intrusive thoughts... Will is reckless enough for his eyes to flick upward and he takes in Hannibal's dark expression. The tension in his jaw. The disappointment in his eyes. Pain? But then, piece by piece, composure is reconstructed in front of Will and the distance between them grows once more. Hannibal's words _hurt_ because Will's not able to comprehend Abigail having made _peace_ with anything of that nature because Will had _helped_ save her, Hannibal's hands went around her neck and stopped the bleeding, but Hannibal's hands had also brought up the knife--

' _Were you hoping I'd hurt you? Maim or disfigure you?'_

Will struggles, but Hannibal's hand is still tight around his neck. "I'm already disfigured," Will spits back, his voice hoarse from the constriction. His hands reach out to grasp on Hannibal's outstretched arm. His shoulder definitely aches now, but Will doesn't care. He holds Hannibal's forearm, but makes no effort to push him away.

"But I don't know, I don't fucking know. I don't want to die, I don't think..." Will knows how ridiculous he sounds. He doesn't want to be seen as some temperamental teenager threatening. He needs to keep it together, but he feels like sanity is flaking off of him like dead skin cells.

* * *

There is fear in Will's eyes when Hannibal looks down at them. They're wide and glistening just enough to register a colder fear. He can scent Will's panic, the flare of adrenaline, and the sight of it pleases him as much as it irritates him. Will they never find peace? Will there always be an ocean between them even at a few inches apart? Will he always be straining at the leash and chomping at the bit for the mere _hint_ of scraps from a man who doesn't know himself well enough to not be disingenuous? Once he had believed that time would help. Then he had believed that conversation would help.

He's tried distance. He's tried closeness. He's tried emotional intimacy. He's tried control. He's tried order and structure, and he's tried patience instead of the violence that had started all of this. Two solitary monsters circling, lashing, frothing and then immediately remembering at the last second not to bite. Hannibal has had practice enough to keep his fangs away from Will's underbelly. Will has no such training.

Will struggles against him but Hannibal holds him tight. His expression is cut from stone and there's real strength in his hand as Will twists. His hands move and Hannibal eyes Will's injured shoulder with another flare of irritation but Will doesn't shove him away. He couldn't even if he'd wanted to. Hannibal stands too close, and his anger is eclipsing a great deal. He can withstand a great many things but the loss of Will Graham is one he doubts he will be able to bear. That Will had threatened that is his greatest offense.

While the insistence that Will doesn't _want_ to die is reassuring, Hannibal is ready to dismiss it. Clearly Will can't handle himself. Clearly he can't be _trusted_. Yet just as he's contemplating tightening his hold on Will's throat, something he'd said earlier jumps to the forefront. Hannibal frowns.

(' _I feel alone still. Like you're in some ivory tower. Impassively looking down at me._ ')

The possibility strikes him hard enough that he pauses. Will has professed a need for closeness, for darkness. Not a few moments ago he had snapped regarding the possibility of Hannibal sending another Tier his way. He feels alone. He _wants_. And much as Hannibal doesn't want to understand this sudden recklessness, Will is drifting on trauma. He feels bare and vulnerable. Hadn't he mentioned Hannibal's mask?

_'I'm already disfigured.'_

"We are _both_ disfigured," Hannibal replies, and there is a tightness of anger in his voice as he tests his hold on Will's throat and then abruptly lets him go. He pushes Will's injured arm back to where it needs to be as he reaches up impatiently, unbuttoning his shirt. He makes quick work of it, the motions quick and uncaring, fueled by anger. Shrugging his shirt off of his shoulders, Hannibal reaches back into the rinsing water for the knife, but instead of moving it to Will's skin, he presses it to the bandages wrapped tightly around his own chest and shoulders. Three quick slices have the ends dangling and Hannibal tosses the knife back into the water, then impatiently reaches up to pull the bandages away.

The action is a fiery agony he cannot fully contain. It registers as only a flicker of pain - a tightening of his jaw and a mild paling of his skin. "You believe yourself alone in your darkness? You wish _chaos_ and recklessness? You ache for proof that I want you? Was slaughtering Mason's men not enough of a gesture? Or-- no, of course not. You know I'd kill regardless. But would I allow this?"

He turns. It's reckless. It's trust, and it's anger, and it's his own frustration fueling this. It's Hannibal at the end of his rope. If there are two sides to this coin and one is Will's death or desired suicide and the other is his own vulnerability, he will glue the coin with his vulnerability facing up. So he turns his back and he lets Will see the brand, the charred and blackened and reddened flesh, cauterized and agonizing. The brand he'd worn while killing those men and carrying Will through the snow. The brand he's worn through Will's healing, shoving the pain medication at Will instead. If Will won't accept his words, all Hannibal has left are his actions, and this is the only _proof_ he can offer.

* * *

There's a very real struggle between looking away and looking at Hannibal and seeing the anger, the agitation and the sheer fucking displeasure that rolls off him in waves. Maybe it's emotional masochism that has Will's eyes searching Hannibal, desperate for something (the fucking paddle? An anchor? A lifeline? Will doesn't know, but he's not in any position to make demands.)

Will knows that he's impulsive. Sleeping with Margot Verger had been impulsive. Calling to warn Hannibal had been impulsive. Getting to his knees had been impulsive Choking himself in Hannibal's gloves had been impulsive. But this isn't the same kind of impulsive. This kind of "crazy" (as Jack would have called it) is its own beast, forged from injuries not easily tended to and soaked in the scent of blood and rain. It's now rearing its ugly head at the most inopportune moment.

(Later on it's going to bother the hell out of Will because he has decided to _try_ and behave, and despite his intentions, _this_ all happened.)

Even while Will endeavors to not break, he can fucking _see_ his offense in Hannibal's eyes. It's him dying that's intolerable to Hannibal. But Will isn't given a chance to process this revelation as anger seems to come to the forefront of Hannibal and Will's throat is let go. His injured arm is positioned back at his side. Will's confused, but when Hannibal begins unbuttoning his shirt, for a sick moment Will has the thought that Hannibal may force--

No. No. He wouldn't. Hannibal would _never_ be that barbaric. As the shirt is parted, the appearance of bandages has Will sobering some. The shirt falls away. Hannibal takes the knife from the water and Will stiffens from the sight of the blade. Scars on top of scars--

But no new scars are made as Hannibal cuts away the bandages, throws the knife back into the water and then is promptly pulling them off. Will is rapt. He's leaning against the counter, but still trembling. Hannibal's questions are sharp and accusatory. They hit Will and Will is unable to form any suitable response to them. His mouth remains shut until Hannibal turns and the mystery wound is finally revealed to him. Will's lips part in a silent gasp. It's a brand Mason would have used on his _pigs. It's sacrilegious to_ see a man like _Hannibal_ _Lecter_ bear it. Will can almost see such a scene... Mason would have delighted in treating Hannibal like a pig. Probably stripped naked and kept near the swine. Tied up. The smell of burning flesh and Hannibal who would have not uttered a pained sound...

Silence settles over them and Will stares and tries to pull himself back in. His fear has quieted in the midst of such a gruesome injury. Eventually he takes a step closer and his left hand reaches out to rest on Hannibal's shoulder. Will leans in and places a shaky kiss on the nape of Hannibal's neck before resting his forehead there. He's careful to not touch the brand.

"This won't be easy and we've both suffered enough," Will murmurs.

* * *

This is all that Hannibal has. This is the equivalent of his last two pennies as offering. He's exhausted the rest of his reserves, has allowed Will to sweep in and compromise everything that he is, and so all he has left is this - his own vulnerability. It's the equivalent of a wolf bending low, of whining, or turning and exposing its underbelly. It's a grand gesture of trust that leaves Hannibal tense, for this is not something he'd wanted Will to see. He doesn't want pity, but more than that, he knows well what he's risking. He's showing Will _exactly_ what to do to hurt him the most. To claw fingers in the skin of the healing brand and scratch would be blinding agony, but he turns to show Will just the same, tense, his expression set as he stares resolutely at the table, thinking about the promise the evening had once held.

Hannibal hears a soft sound. It's hardly a gasp but he can register Will's shock. Exposed to the open air, the brand is agony but he merely closes his eyes against the pain and waits. He's offered Will a chance. He's handed Will a different kind of knife and now all he can do is wait.

The touch to his shoulder startles him. Hannibal attempts to avoid moving, but the surprise is still enough that his muscles jump ever so slightly. It hurts, but even the pain is secondary to the thrumming anger within. He's quiet as Will's palm rests on his shoulder, warm and solid in a way Hannibal isn't expecting, and when Will leans in and kisses his nape, Hannibal tenses. He doesn't pull away. Instead he holds his breath for a count of five, still waiting, still uncertain. While he doesn't relax much when Will presses his forehead to the spot he'd kissed, some of the tension does leave his shoulders. Hannibal allows himself to let out the breath he'd held and when he breathes again, the sound is normal once more.

"Have we?" Hannibal asks quietly. His hands are fists at his sides, a reminder of the tension he's still struggling with. Even Will's breath against the brand hurts, but Will is the only person who has the _right_ to hurt him. "You needed a sacrifice once. Do you require another one to slake your thirst?"

* * *

If showing a grisly offering is what it takes to rein Will back in, Hannibal is going to be in trouble. Will has the distinct feeling he should be concerned about what Hannibal would do the _next time_ something like this occurs. (Because Will isn't optimistic enough to think this is a one-off.) Had Will been waiting or hoping for some grand gesture to be made? He sort of feels like a woman if that's the case. It's not like Hannibal and him are _in_ a relationship-- but isn't that exactly what Will _wants_ despite how ridiculous the notion is _?_

They _are_ a tangled mess. Work and patience is what Hannibal had said would help, but what if Will creates too many knots and tangles in the process? Hannibal may have dexterous hands, but only so much can be done. Surely Hannibal's patience would eventually wane...

And Will knows Hannibal would have no qualms about tying him up if it's suspected that he's a danger to himself. (Using the red thread for a different purpose?) Hannibal wants him alive and is going to ensure that that is what happens. Seeing Hannibal's anger has began to pour cement into Will's cracks, but cement takes time to dry and harden. What if it's too late?

Hannibal is tense, but so is Will. Will wants to press closer, to wrap his arms around Hannibal's torso and pull him into a hug and never let go, but such a position is out of the question given the wound to Hannibal's mid-back. (Does Will want to offer comfort? Seek it? Not even Will knows exactly.) The mention of a sacrifice is a low blow because Abigail Hobbs had unknowingly been moved into that role. Will takes in a shuddering breath inhaling the scent of Hannibal.

"No," Will answers. "No... but I don't exactly trust myself when it comes to you. You've always managed to incite. To...fan the flame higher." He thinks about this house burning... Will's hand slides from Hannibal's shoulder, down his arm and wraps around Hannibal's fist.

* * *

Just as Will considers the implications of what his need for a grand gesture means, so too does Hannibal. The next time Will's hand goes for a knife (for there _will_ be a next time; Will is nowhere near stable enough to be trusted) what more can Hannibal offer? What will it take to truly slake Will's thirst? Will it be a sacrifice of a different sort? A pound of flesh? Hannibal redirecting Will's need to destroy upon himself? The more Hannibal thinks about it, the more dire the situation feels, as one thing is becoming abundantly clear. Despite Will's recklessness and his mania, despite his _need_ and his unpredictability, despite the real risks to life and safety, Hannibal is uncomfortably aware that it changes nothing. He would still catch Will's hand. He would still redirect the blade. He would still slaughter dozens to keep Will _his_.

Hannibal considers reaching up to check his throat for an instant to ensure there is no collar etched into his skin. Only the fact that Will would see the gesture and likely infer far too much from it stays his hand. Instead he stands, exhausted, exposed, and irritatingly vulnerable merely because Will had demanded it. What _will_ it take? Perhaps only time will answer that.

It is with a modicum of defeat etched into the line of his shoulders that Hannibal finally glances back. He can't see Will like this, but Will can still feel the slight pull of his skin from where his forehead is still pressed to Hannibal's nape. He'll register the effort this takes just as Hannibal registers Will's grounding breath. Hannibal listens to what Will says, but there's honestly little point. As genuine as Will feels, he had felt equally as genuine multiple times before. Will is an unstable variable. Predicting him is impossible. And perhaps Will also has a point. Hannibal is protean; he adapts. However for a man like Will, perhaps the fluidity is just shy of maddening.

The hand that settles around his fist is tentative and Hannibal remains stoic for a long moment. Then, finally, he relaxes his fist enough to turn his hand, intertwining their fingers quietly.

"You fear me and you want me. You desire closeness and then become volatile when you receive it. You threaten and then soothe. You are volatile and perilous and we are liable to burn each other to ruin. And yet still I ache for you." Giving Will's hand a small squeeze, Hannibal strokes his thumb over the delicate web between Will's thumb and forefinger. He sighs.

"Why did you grab the knife, Will? Did you object to the rules?"

* * *

Human. They're both so very human in this moment. Skin against skin. Skin broken and pulled back together with stitches. Hearts broken by betrayals. Even with Hannibal's finely crafted mask, Hannibal is human. Fallible. (Will _knows_ Hannibal regrets what he had been about to do in Florence.) Perhaps a part of Will likes elevating Hannibal, likes thinking of him as otherworldly and unreachable up in that tower because hasn't there always been a distance and a chase between them? They've never been equals. There's been glimpses, but always games. Will may want closeness, may want Hannibal, but equality is unfamiliar territory and both the mind and heart fear the unknown. (How many times must Hannibal assert that he is not alone for Will to allow himself to really _feel_ it?)

Hannibal is warm and Will can feel the slight movements of breathing, of a chest rising and falling and though it's tempting to be lulled by the display of vitals, Will knows he can't let himself slip away. (He _wants_ to, though. He wants to focus on Hannibal's breathing, for his own inhalations and exhalations to match, to rise and fall... Conjoined. For them to become their own slumbering beast hidden away in a cave while their wounds mend. A period of hibernation and healing, of becoming strong and _whole_.)

Their fingers become entwined and Will swears he can feel the thread wind around each digit, weaving in between Hannibal's fingers and his own and then around their wrists. Maybe the tangles can hold them together? It's a nice thought. It's a scary thought.

Hannibal's words are like poetry he's resistant to have a connection with. He doesn't want the statements to resonate with him, to cut him open cleanly, for him to be understood and _seen--_

But no, that's not quite right, is it? A squeeze to his hand and then a question to distract him.

Answering is easier than the other subject matter. "No, the rules are fine. The rules are actually... good," Will replies, a bit dazed as he tries to work through and find any logic in the mess of marbles knocking around in his head. "It's kitchens... Or something. We've had a few showdowns in fucking kitchens... You were behind me, like you had been with her. I slipped and remembered empathizing with her." Will's hand clenches Hannibal's own. "But what I said... The thoughts didn't feel like _mine_."

* * *

They are both damned. Will craves closeness but rejects it when it looms in front of him, and Hannibal distances himself and yet Will's magnetism draws him back in. They are chaotic and violent, grasping at each other instead of attempting to solidify the crumbling earth beneath their feet. Like a drowning man clinging to his rescuer, they will drag each other down in the end and yet still Hannibal knows that this is where he wishes to be. If destruction is their end, he intends to catalog their fall.

The knife in the sink glints almost mockingly and every puff of breath against the brand hurts. It's a sweet agony, searing in its intensity, but Hannibal clings to it, for it serves as extra grounding. He breathes slowly and finally closes his eyes, his focus narrowed in on the points of contact between them. Will's fingers are rough and warm and his forehead feels hot. He'll need medication before long if this continues. Yet Hannibal doesn't move. The ground underneath them may be crumbling away but they have a few seconds of stability here. Hannibal hardly dares to move for fear of destroying this tentative peace.

When Will replies, he sounds contained and nearly as as exhausted as Hannibal feels, his voice low, the bite missing from his words. Hannibal silently files the sound away, for peace between them is not a guarantee. He doesn't miss that Will has chosen to skim over his earlier words but he doesn't complain. Instead he merely lets them rest; Will has heard them, and they're both aware that Hannibal is right. They both are broken and violent and selfish; finding peace will be a constant struggle. Whether they can learn to live with each other or will tear each other apart in the end is an uncertain variable.

Will's mention of _kitchens_ is enough to make Hannibal frown. He opens his eyes again and glances back even if he can't see Will like this. His thumb keeps stroking slow and steady over Will's skin, tracing each joint in his index finger and then sliding across to do the same to his thumb. Yet nothing can prepare him for Will's admission. In the heat of anger, Hannibal's hurt had been mitigated, offset by the pounding of bitterness. Now, the mention of Abigail Hobbs - of Will _empathizing_ with her - is enough to make Hannibal go still. The pain is more visceral this time and he draws in a slightly sharper breath, lips twisting. There is a masochistic side of himself that wishes to ask, but he doesn't. Hannibal doesn't want to know what Abigail had been thinking in that moment.

"I see. Perhaps this is not the place to be having this conversation, then." He draws in a slow, fortifying breath, and finally, reluctantly takes a single step away. His fingers remain intertwined with Will's. This is one point of contact he doesn't wish to lose. Hannibal leads the way into the living room instead, out of sight of the kitchen. The decor is as muted as the rest of the house, with dark furniture and lighter floors. Hannibal goes only so far as to lead Will into the center of the room surrounded by the soft leather couches and chairs and then he looks back at him.

“I assume this is better. If the thoughts didn't feel like yours, who were they from?"

* * *

Since waking up at this house on the bluff there have been a few moments of closeness between them. Hannibal has touched his scar and kissed his knuckles. Will has sat next to Hannibal in his bed and touched his hair and face. And then yesterday in Will's bed they held hands again and Will reached out and cupped Hannibal's face. It's almost some bizarre courtship, a dance where they can't get too close because it's not proper. Will's never physically touched or been touched like this without anything sexual having taken place in the midst or shortly thereafter. While there's been arousal on Will's part, it seems far too audacious to expect anything conventional like overt romance and sex to transpire between them. It would be too bold, too quick.

Will's sure Hannibal _can_ do romance and sex. He'd charmed Alana Bloom quite effectively and possibly even Bedelia while they were off galavanting around Europe... Yet for all the desire and want that apparently is between _them_ , nothing much has happened. Now of course isn't the time for Will to be thinking about all of this, but it floats down the stream in his mind anyway. He'd rather let his thoughts be swept up about this subject than about what's just occurred.

Hannibal's thumb is stroking over his skin and it feels far too nice for such a simple motion. Will has the suspicion that any slight or brief touch from Hannibal is going to hold more meaning than Will's used to. (Soulmates, right? A fated love.) As with the lulling quality of listening to Hannibal's breathing, Will wants to escape into his own mind and replay all the physical contact they've had. He wants to remember the feel of Hannibal's lips pressing a fleeting kiss to his knuckles. He wants to relive the tension in Hannibal holding his chin firmly--

But after Hannibal deems their current location inappropriate, Will feels Hannibal take a deeper breath and then step away to remedy it. Their connection is all but broken save for their hands. Will allows Hannibal to lead and he follows, feeling a vague sense of disconnection and exhaustion cling to him.

They go to the lavish living room, stopping somewhat in the middle of the space. Hannibal is more limited in where and how he can sit considering the wound. Will doesn't make a move to go sit anywhere, not wanting to break away from Hannibal. He looks down as the question about his thoughts comes. Will's eyes focus on his socks -- socks that Hannibal has provided for him, like all of his clothing.

Focus. Answer the question.

"Maybe just intrusive thoughts?" Will quietly suggests as a possibility. He glances up before squeezing Hannibal's hand firmly. Will deliberately makes eye contact as he lowers himself to his knees close to Hannibal's side. He's still holding Hannibal's hand (red thread tangled around their fingers). Will's heart is fairly steady, yet he doesn't know if this is overstepping here. Maybe the kneeling will just piss off Hannibal, but Will has to try.

* * *

Intrusive thoughts. The answer isn't surprising. Hannibal considers this as if mulling over a faint taste lingering on the air, testing it for hints of authenticity, of honesty. Will's voice is quiet with something almost defeated, or shamed. Hannibal feels the exhaustion between them like a thread wrapped around them - perhaps Will's red thread he'd mentioned once - connecting them endlessly, twining around them both like an infinite cat's cradle. He can almost envision it where their hands are connected and wonders vaguely if the loops have twined into ropes by now, and if they've looped insidiously around their throats, just waiting for them to jump freely in the hopes of hanging them. If so, they'll be hanging together. At this point, _together_ is the best case scenario regardless of the outcome.

Hannibal doesn't sit, and Will finally knows why. He wonders idly what Will had thought of him before, whether the standing had been seen as something dominant or controlling. This has forced Will to peer behind the curtain perhaps a little too soon and Hannibal still feels weak with the emotional exhaustion of the earlier moment.

So while he looks at the various surfaces in the room and attempts to figure out where it will be best to rest, he takes his eyes off of Will for a moment. Which is precisely when Will gently eases himself down. Hannibal feels the slight tug to his hand as Will settles, feels the squeeze Will places there anyway, and he looks down in mild surprise as Will slowly meets his eyes and then lowers himself to his knees. Something catches in Hannibal's throat at the sight; his eyes widen just enough to show that he _is_ surprised but even that settles into something silently awed as Will rests on his knees and then stays there.

Hannibal glances at their clasped hands and then back to Will himself. He's silent; this is hardly the best idea given this moment. Hannibal's air of control - the illusion of dominance - has cracked with the reveal of the injury. It's proof that while Hannibal could still overpower Will if need be, his focus is split and his injuries are severe. Yet despite this, Will still kneels, still looks up at him, and Hannibal feels something twist in his chest. He's silent for a moment, then he turns away from Will and - without letting go of his hand - he leans over to take a decorative cushion from the couch. He sets it on the ground beside the couch itself and then nods to it silently.

"If this is what you want, kneel on the cushion, not the floor."

He turns away then, slowly leading the way to the couch, and when he sits, it's near the edge of the seat to keep his back away from the leather. It requires that he briefly lets go of Will's hand to move there, but he simply reaches over with his other to twine their fingers together again. There isn't a seconds' pause where he isn't touching Will.

"Intrusive thoughts often find nirvana in the thought of self-destruction. There is recklessness and pain to fuel them by times, but often their danger is that they sound like a wonderful idea at the moment. A sailor blaming a siren for wishing to crash his boat against the rocks simply because he sees the rocks and the need strikes. Are intrusive thoughts common to you, Will?"

* * *

He's been here before -- on his knees and Hannibal standing over him. This time, it's not an act of desperation, but one done out of acceptance. At least for Will. In revealing the brand Hannibal has shown his humanity. The mask has been lowered once more, but Will can't exactly voice his gratitude for such a thing. Will may have claimed that seeing Hannibal weak pissed him off, and sure, a part of him _does_ find it unsettling, but he needs to readjust his own mental image of Hannibal Lecter.

Because Hannibal Lecter is not all powerful. Hannibal Lecter bleeds and bruises. Hannibal Lecter may hold himself above the rest, but he's not impenetrable to love digging its claws into him. There's no use for Will to pretend otherwise. Not anymore, not after he's given up his life for this man. Hannibal is human. He makes mistakes. He has regrets (and not just about a scene in a dining room in Florence).

So, Will goes to his knees and perhaps now isn't the time to steer them back on this course, but he'll show Hannibal that he still wants to give this to him despite the show of humanity.

(Humans may be weak, fragile, all too willing to lie and lash out, all too susceptible to blades and bullets, but humans are also survivors. Hannibal is a survivor. Will is a survivor. They've survived each other and now they both need to survive _together_.)

Hannibal's eyes are wide in surprise. Will likes being the cause. Their eyes meet and there is silence, but it's not necessarily awkward. The moment is serious. Poignant. Hushed. He waits for Hannibal's response.

The offering of a cushion is not what Will had been expecting but he crawls on his knees over to it and settles on top of it. It feels much better than hardwood floors of course. A jolt of panic goes through him when his hand is let go, but he quickly sees that Hannibal is making to sit down and Will's hand is taken again. Will holds tight, their fingers interlocked and when Hannibal talks, Will feels no shame in scooting the pillow closer to Hannibal's legs. He bows his head and nuzzles at Hannibal's knee and thigh with his uninjured cheek. He likes the texture of the slacks, he likes the warmth and feel of muscle. And maybe he likes showing affection toward Hannibal and being able to hide his eyes Will's other hand rests against the floor.

Yeah, maybe he's a dog right now but Will doesn't fucking care because Hannibal is a good owner and will take care of him. Hannibal _is_ taking care of him. (The realization simmers, a pang of embarrassment at being a grown man and liking such things...)

"More common since the arrival of you into my life," Will answers quietly. His other hand reaches out and grasps onto Hannibal's ankle over his pants. "But our games and my anger kept me focused."

* * *

As Hannibal looks down at Will, he is forced to acknowledge a shade of his plans from before Will's intrusive thoughts had taken them and dashed them against the rocks. He feels a small flicker of pride as Will simply crawls to the cushion instead of getting up and walking to it. Whether he's aware of what he's doing or if he's merely operating on what feels right, Hannibal doesn't know. Frankly if it keeps Will grounded, he cares very little. Besides, this is what he'd intended Will to do before things had fallen apart. He hadn't planned on intensity or pushing boundaries. He hadn't planned on what Will had clearly expected. Instead he'd been planning to test soft limits and get Will used to the idea of submission. The shallow end of the pool, so to speak.

So watching as Will scoots the cushion closer to his leg, Hannibal looks upon him with a measure of idle fondness that he doesn't let show _too_ sharply. He's still drained and Will's sudden descent into _danger_ has served to pull the rug out from under him.

He knows this isn't the proper time to introduce Will to this concept, not when the both of them are so raw. Yet perhaps this is precisely the moment for certain aspects of this. He's quiet as Will leans in to press his cheek to his knee and Hannibal feels the mild scrape and catch of Will's stubble against the fabric of his slacks. It's the closest they've been without violence and coercion. Will had knelt in the catacombs, had nuzzled in close, yet _this_ is the moment Hannibal chooses to remember. He's quiet as Will settles in close, as he gets himself comfortable, but he doesn't move until Will reaches a hand over and grips onto his ankle.

Only then does Hannibal sigh softly and reach down with his free hand. His fingers trace the sharp line of Will's jaw, following its sharp curve until the elegant lift near his ear. Then he makes a point to slowly and carefully push his fingers back through Will's hair. His touch is light, almost fleeting, and Hannibal takes great care not to tug or wrench. He simply touches, an acknowledgement and silent praise, and as Will speaks, Hannibal begins to stroke his fingers through Will's hair. It's not an easy topic. It deserves rewarding.

"And now that you've been left to drift on recovery, with no foundation, you suspect games - which produces anxiety - and you have anger still. Neither have an outlet, so they attempt to form into a recognizable shape for you to process."

Perhaps Will is situated like a dog for now. Given his affinity for them, it seems almost fitting. Yet Hannibal doesn't shy away from stroking his hair as they talk. He hopes it will help to soothe uncomfortable conversation.

* * *

The name "Hannibal" is synonymous with trauma for Will. The trauma of his sanity being stretched, his health stressed and his empathy toyed with. Made to believe he'd killed their own surrogate daughter. Framed and locked up. Beverly sliced apart. Matthew Brown stepping forward. Then Will had been freed and welcomed back into Hannibal's games. Randall Tier pointed at him. Margot sent his way and then another child taken away. Pawns moved and betrayals came to the light. Finally, a climax of carnage set at Hannibal's own where each player had been changed. Bones broken and blood spilled. Abigail Hobbs paid the ultimate price for Will's deception. The cost was high. Hannibal may have walked out, may have escaped, but he'd been changed too.

Medical care and time may have healed the gash on Will belly, but time had done nothing for the enduring emptiness and ache left behind.

But Hannibal and trauma weren't done with Will. He'd found Hannibal in that most holy place. A reunion among the dead and in the shadows, of leather jackets and gloves, but it wasn't the right time (or so Hannibal claimed) and desperate hopes were extinguished as a hand wrapped around his neck and squeezed. Will was left again.

Then found again. Their thread remaining, an inescapable link leading to another reunion. The reckless urge to gift Hannibal with a physical wound of some kind had earned Will more pain. Shot. Drugged. Seasoned. The sound of a saw. The sound of Jack yelling. The steady trickling of blood like his very own stream.

Muskrat Farm. Washed. Tended to. Dressed in a suit and brought to another dinner table. The show of politeness a farce from their deranged and mutilated host. Cordell with his flesh sewn back on. Cordell with the scalpel that would cut his face off. Will unable to move, but able to feel pain and bleed.

But rescued. Safe. Bandages and the the ocean. Rest and Chiyoh's distrusting gaze. No trauma except from the past, the whispered fragments of nightmares and the thoughts ricocheting in his head.

Perhaps this is their happy ending, perhaps the calm before another storm, but it hardly matters when Hannibal and he are finally together. Hannibal's fingers trace his jaw and up to his ear and Will wonders if Hannibal has drawn him, or if he would ever want to. Hannibal can learn each of his lines as long as Will can be near him, can reach out and have the corporeal presence of Hannibal be verified. Like now, they hold hands still, Will clutches onto Hannibal's ankle like some child while Hannibal's fingers brush through sweaty hair. It feels delicate, like a teacup balancing precariously on the edge of a table. Will continues to rub along Hannibal's thigh, back and forth, soothing. There is a resurgence of arousal, a small curl of desire from being on his knees and this _close_ , but Will tries to ignore it. Hannibal likes him talking, so Will is going to try and talk.

"I've thought of burning this house down," Will admits quietly. "Not seriously. Not to kill anyone, not even myself." Maybe if he confesses his crazy thoughts, if he shines a light on the blasphemy it won’t be able to breed in the shadows.

* * *

As Will's mind wanders through a painfully-shared history, Hannibal's lingers over the time since Muskrat Farm. Will's line is cast into the distant past whereas Hannibal's is focused and steady. Will's concerns gnaw and chew at old bones until they splinter and the memories stab into his suddenly-bleeding gums to fuel his rage in the present. Hannibal's concerns are guarded, almost hoarded; he covers them from prying eyes to deal with on his own, when he has the capacity to. It's a marked difference between them. Will spirals because the past fuels his present. Hannibal's present is influenced primarily in the moment, or into the future. And at this moment, with Will on his knees, Hannibal is left merely looking down at him and wondering if this is truly the right choice.

Will Graham is unstable and reckless and beautifully dangerous, an animal acting on base instinct regardless of the danger he's in, and this calm between them feels so simulated that Hannibal can't find the ease Will seems to feel. The memory of the knife at Will's throat is still sharp as there had been a time, a long while ago, where Hannibal _had_ considered doing just that to Will. He'd considered splitting his throat and holding him as he bled out. Yet even enraged, even at his most reckless, he had not been able to kill Will. (A whisper in his mind reminds him of _Florence_ but the nausea and anger that twist his stomach are sharp and he dismisses the thought.) Will killing _himself_ is a concern Hannibal hadn't truly visualized until now. It makes this moment seem dire; he feels sober, his earlier bravado stolen from him with a flick of Will's wrist and a glint of metal across his throat.

So as he watches Will press in closer, as he watches the slow nuzzle back and forth, back and forth, his touch is physically light but emotionally poignant. Should he double Chiyoh's guard? Perhaps. He doubts it is truly safe to drug Will into a stupor until he can't hurt himself. Given his predilection for infection and fever, it could have long-lasting consequences.

The problem is that Hannibal knows himself enough to know that he needs rest. He can't be watching Will at every moment. And in the off chance Will has an episode when he's asleep...

A tight curl of something unpleasant clenches in his stomach and Hannibal's fingers still. He looks down upon Will and marvels silently that despite every instance where Hannibal's life has been in danger, despite every run-in with Jack, _this_ is what speeds his pulse from anxiety. Hannibal is not an anxious man. Fear isn't a sensation common for him. How vulnerable will Will claw him in the end? Hannibal draws a slow breath and then lets it out just as slowly.

"Fire cleanses. Alcohol can disinfect, but nothing destroys the way fire does. A controlled fire in a forest can often clear away dead growth, turning old brush and trees into ash that serve as an enriching cover for the fresh growth underneath. Perhaps that is your symbolism, Will," Hannibal sighs. His fingers stroke back through Will's hair once, and there's still weight in his touch. "Either your goal is destruction, or your goal is to cleanse. At present, I'm uncertain which is more believable."

* * *

Will knows he likely should be more worried about what all had transpired in the kitchen. He's aware that playing with knives and courting new wounds isn't a good thing. He's aware that inviting Hannibal to kill him is a rather spectacular warning sign of instability. But if he does zero in on this volatility, if he does connect in some way with this chaos, what if he comes up with no answers? What then? His mind isn't mechanical. It's not so simple to locate the problem - a loose screw or a faulty wire - and then apply the necessary fix. He can't swap out the malfunctioning parts of his mind (if only). What's the solution to achieve a somewhat peaceful existence when they're coming from a twisted and complicated history of hurt and violence?

Will doesn't know. He imagines the vague answer of "time" and trust. Minutes will bleed into hours and hours into days, and as each day passes and he remains alive and cared for, his mental image of Hannibal will adjust itself. It's already begun the process, Will's sure.

If he can just hold himself together, hold onto Hannibal, and these feelings right _here_ and _now... (Safe. Close.)_ If he can just reach out, clutch onto Hannibal, be touched in return and reminded that he's alive and that they're together... Maybe then, maybe then he'll be okay. The Will Graham of his past is dead and the present day Will is digging him a grave to commemorate.

He doesn't want to worry. Will doesn't want to make Hannibal worry either and yet he knows his _wants_ mean very little in this. He's shown his hand and it's not good one. His actions are blaring, his intentions muted in comparison. Will is left to wonder how Hannibal will decide to deal with him after this... Perhaps he will become like a prisoner, tied up or drugged out. Neither option sits well with him.

Hannibal speaks about fire and Will can almost feel the staggering swell of heat against his face instead of the feel of the fabric. He can hear the flame's cackle as it hungrily devours and changes--

_'Either your goal is destruction, or your goal is to cleanse. At present, I'm uncertain which is more believable.'_

"I've never thought of myself as a goal type of guy," Will admits and rests his head against Hannibal's thigh. "I've always tried to simply get by and survive."

* * *

"Who is more dangerous, I wonder," Hannibal muses, half to himself, and half to Will. "The man who plans destruction to a fine detail, or the man who stumbles upon it and acts recklessly to achieve the same goal without intending it." _Intent_ is hardly a crime in the same way action is, but that doesn't mean it doesn't play a part. "I would argue the man who doesn't intend to cause harm. The former can be stopped, as his plans have been pre-determined. There is no predicting a reckless man. There is no framework to structure a plan, no warning. One can only be reactive, not pro-active."

There's no question who Hannibal is talking about, but despite the words, his fingers are still threading through Will's hair. This is conversation. Perhaps this is more hypothetical conversation, but it's something. The more Will speaks, the less likely he is to get lost in his own mind. The only issue is that like this, right now, Hannibal's plans have fallen by the wayside. He is an adaptable creature by nature, but he's weak. His body is vulnerable and its weakness has added weight to his thoughts and emotions that normally don't bother him. It means that, in the end, he cannot predict Will Graham, and his ability to adapt on the fly has been restrained.

There are no men to slaughter here. He isn't dangling himself like a carrot on a stick in front of Jack Crawford, begging for confrontation. Like this, Hannibal is as human as Will and the knowledge is as dangerous as a blade in Will's hand. Even footing has not been their history. _Equality_ is not their creed. But perhaps, in the end, it must be. It means Hannibal must adapt, and Will must decide. Whether or not this is possible will be up to time and circumstance.

Hannibal's touch gentles in Will's hair, the weight of his hand settling atop his head as Will's head presses to his thigh. Hannibal can smell that Will is affected, though the notes are subtle past the nauseating scent of his own injuries.

"The issue we seem to face is that you believe you must _still_ struggle to survive. You aren't allowing yourself to exist in a place of safety as you lack structure and stability. This house gives you no comfort. You see walls, you see a floor, you see open space, and instead of finding comfort in familiarity, you suspect it." Again, Hannibal's fingers card through Will's hair, as if to ease the sting of his words. "Regardless of how often I insist you are safe here, you won't believe it until you _feel_ it. So ultimately our goal - or _my_ goal, as goals are not your forte - is to make you _feel_ safe."

He has never done this before, detailed his thoughts to Will so transparently. In a way, perhaps he's hoping that by removing the veil and allowing Will to see inner workings, he will suspect it less. So as Hannibal looks down at Will and watches him, he considers his plans for a moment and then glances around the room.

"I would like you to do something for me, Will. Stand up, then take stock of this single room. I want you to look at every item - furniture, paintings, rugs, cushions, candlesticks, everything - and touch what you feel curious towards, or drawn to. If you see something that makes you feel neutral or provokes a sense of unease or anxiety, do not touch it. When you're done, I want you to tell me the item that drew you in the most as you kneel on the cushion for me, exactly as you are now."

* * *

It's funny that he always used to label Hannibal has dangerous and destructive. Before Hannibal, "dangerous" is never a word Will would have applied to himself _._ But now... now he's witnessed his actions bringing forth destruction. He'd brought an end to man who longed to be a beast. Will had beat Randall Tier to death, his fists pounding into skin and bone, beating his own knuckles bloody in the process. His hands had ached for days after, swollen and sore to move. He'd watched his knuckles scab over with a certain impassive attitude. He'd done what was necessary. That's what Will told himself at the time.

His hands hadn't been able to save Abigail, hadn't been able to seal the gash on her neck and stop the rushing stream of blood. If he had came clean, if he hadn't needed a sacrifice, his hands wouldn't have forced Hannibal's hands lift the knife to her throat--

His hands had freed Chiyoh's prisoner, undone the lock and placed the bag over his head... Had he ever wanted the man to run? Or had that been a convenient lie he told himself? Because Chiyoh may have jabbed the broken shard of glass into his neck, but Will had orchestrated his demise, pulled the strings as it were. (Hadn't he learned from the best?)

His hand - one of them - clasps onto Hannibal's ankle like it's a lifeline as the other holds Hannibal's hand. The circuit is complete, but Will knows they're far from functioning. Because Hannibal is right. The reckless, impulsiveness man is far more dangerous than the man with a pre-set goal.

Will's reckless. He's impulsive. Unstable. (He can't seem to shake that word.) Now there's very little holding him together as he doesn't have to hold himself together for work or for Jack. The only two other humans around him are Chiyoh and Hannibal and both of them _see_ him and likely expect the worse now.

When Hannibal's hand stops moving and comes to rest on his head, Will tries to quiet his mind and focus on what Hannibal is saying. _'So ultimately our goal - or my goal, as goals are not your forte - is to make you **feel** safe...' _Hannibal is being open with him. No subversion, no leading and it's honestly strange. Will is so familiar with Hannibal weaving words and ideas like a cunning spider. He's used to the fanciful pretentious bullshit and yet Hannibal does not hide behind such words now. Hannibal is honest so Will does try his best to listen to the activity laid out for him.

He doesn't want to break this circuit and run through this little activity. He likes having his head rest on Hannibal's thigh and he likes holding his hand and ankle. He likes Hannibal's hand on his head, his fingers stroking through his hair. It's simple and uncomplicated. Despite his wants,Will knows Hannibal is trying to help him.

He doesn't know if it's an order, but Will is going to obey anyway. He'll try this little exercise. Will lets go of Hannibal's ankle first. Next he rights his head, lifting it off of Hannibal's thigh. He doesn't let go of Hannibal's hand until he's standing up and glancing around the area. He immediately gravitates toward the large dining room table with it's stupid fancy chairs. There's six of them. They don't need six chairs obviously, but Will supposes it makes no sense to take any away. Will walks to it and his left hand comes to rest on the back of a chair, grasping onto the polished wood.

There would be no fancy dinner parties for them. No exotic cooking of any sort while Hannibal heals and certainly the meat will not be up to his standards. Will wonders how Hannibal is coping with having to rely on another person to cook for them. He could ask, but Will worries that his show of concern would be coming at an awkward time. Maybe later. Will lets go of the chair and glances around. The art and decor is... oddly flat to him.

"This place doesn't really feel like you," Will comments. "It's like a cheap imitation. A knock off. It has elements of you, but it doesn't capture all your intricacies and flair... I miss your real home." The last statement has Will looking down and shaking his head at himself.

* * *

In many ways, Hannibal's touch upon Will's head feels like a stopgap. It feels like he's pressing against whatever crack in Will's armor that his sanity continues to leak from, and that somehow by a continued touch, he can temper Will's madness. That isn't how they work; Will's sanity is not a simple fix, and Hannibal presumes much to believe himself capable of _stabilizing_ a man he's actively set out to make unstable. Yet in this moment, he can do nothing more. His touch to Will's head is grave, his expression heavy and bordering on somber, yet his fingers still curl in Will's hair and he still gives Will clear direction because right now, this is all Hannibal can think of to do. Will has exhausted his other options, and Hannibal can only forge ahead and hope for the best.

So though it does take Will a few moments to comply, Hannibal doesn't rush him. He's quiet as Will's hand leaves his ankle, and he strokes his fingers through Will's hair in silent praise until Will manages to climb up onto his feet and Hannibal can no longer reach. With a silent squeeze of Will's hand, he allows his own to fall away and then he watches, curious, as Will looks around the room.

Like a pet scoping out his surroundings, Will stays still until he has a goal in mind and then Hannibal is left watching as Will makes a rather odd choice. Instead of the softer cushions or muted colors, instead of plants and the record player in the corner, Will turns to the dining area instead and walks over to the table and its chairs. Hannibal slowly turns in his seat and looks back at Will, and when the chair is touched, Hannibal silently makes note of it. Perhaps the next time, they will do this there instead of in the leather chair Hannibal now sits in.

He's curious at Will's selection until the rationale comes, and when Will points out that the decor doesn't _feel_ like Hannibal, all he can do is look around the house with that comment in mind. The interior of the house is dark for all the picture windows, and Hannibal cannot deny that Will has a point. There is very little color to offset the darker wood grain and there are no true centerpieces worth note. Hannibal's frown is mild as he looks around the place, but Will's final comment is what truly drives his point home.

Hannibal looks at him quietly for a moment and then he nods once, slower. He appreciates that even if Will doesn't enjoy this exercise, he's doing it anyway.

"You're right, of course. I was never able to personalize the residence to my liking. I hadn't the time. What about the chairs, Will? Do they feel like me?" Hannibal asks, though the real question he's asking is more obvious. _Did you pick the chair because it reminds you of me?_ Hannibal doesn't voice this. Instead he watches and waits, patient.

"And is there anything else you are drawn to in this room, Will?"

* * *

Will doesn't exactly want to be doing this. Hannibal's watching him and he could fail. It's the idea of failure or screwing this up that has Will bothered. The uncertainty thrums under his skin, but Will ignores it. There's an overarching feeling of despondency, of an emotional exhaustion that clings to him like a second skin. He feels more removed and numb after his show of crazy in the kitchen. It's like his body is over correcting something, a whip lash from being jolted.

(There's a nagging sensation in the back of his mind that he's missing something, but Will also ignores this.)

Will doesn't really mind. He would rather be like this than hovering on the fucking edge. _This_ feels markedly safer. It reminds him of the period of time after the gutting. He'd been eerily contained and calm. The doctors and nurses, Jack, Alana -- everyone kept expecting him to crack like an egg and have his insides spill out. Everyone had been expecting a mess. But he hadn't done it. Instead, he answered their questions and let Abigail take up his time. (Talking with an imagined Abigail seemed to be easier than the real one. Another ideal, another imago?)

This isn't his home and it's not Hannibal's. It's not Chiyoh's either. It's transitory. It's a farce. It's contemporary design, the furniture, the decor... Will suddenly knows that Hannibal had bought the place furnished. There's a few subtle touches here that _are_ Hannibal. The record player. The dining room set. The piano. The bookshelf in the office up status. They feel different to him--

_'Do they feel like me?'_

Will's hand tightens around the wood and glances down at the chair. He understands the _real_ question. He thinks of their string, the red thread. If he's not to be found in this house, isn't it only natural he looks for his counterpart?

"We've had many conversations and glances shared over opulent table settings and delicious meals," Will finally answers, his voice somewhat distant. He's looking out of the windows at the ocean. It's too dark to see much, but it's there nonetheless.

"The house came furnished, but you've brought in a few pieces. The dining room set, for example... If I cannot find myself, I search for the familiar." Will's hand leaves the chair and he turns around, gazing at Hannibal. "For you."

His eyes leave Hannibal and look around the room, mindful of the last question asked of him. Will's not done the activity yet.

* * *

It's a weighted question for a weighted moment and Hannibal is silent as Will glances down at the chair he's holding. There's no question about it that Will understands what he truly means. Will Graham is not an idiot despite the recklessness and instability, and Hannibal allows Will to feel out this moment on his own. He observes silently, he admires and approves, but he doesn't say anything else as Will's hand tightens on the wood of the chair. This moment belongs to Will.

When Will speaks, his voice is distant but Hannibal dwells on every moment. The compliments he merely locks away to enjoy later; for now, there is something far more important happening. Will seems distant, but he's at least still mostly present. Hannibal watches him for cracks in his armor, for a tremor in his arms or a light of madness in his eyes, but blessedly nothing comes. Instead Will merely looks out at the windows and then he glances back inside the house, correctly guessing that the house had come furnished. Hannibal nods once, just enough to confirm Will's suspicions, and then again to confirm that he'd had _certain_ items brought in.

Will turns then and looks at him, and Hannibal feels something settle heavily in his chest at Will's admission. (' _If I cannot find myself, I search for the familiar. For you.'_ ) It puts his actions in stark detail. It immediately explains why Will had been so reckless in the catacombs and why Hannibal's injury has thrown him so much. He stills, aware of the brand upon his back. Then, after a moment, Hannibal draws himself up taller and shifts his position. Though it aches, he settles himself into the position he'd so often been in, seated across from Will in his office. If Will craves the familiar, Hannibal will try.

"Most of the house was furnished when I purchased it, yes. I made small additions and changes throughout the years as I did come here occasionally, but ultimately I never did manage to renovate it to my liking," Hannibal confirmed, for it didn't hurt their situation to admit that Will was right.

"I commissioned the dining set shortly after you held the gun to my head, in my kitchen." He pauses to let that sink in, then turns to look around the room as Will does. "What else, Will? What else do you feel drawn to?"

* * *

After his admission, he sees Hannibal straighten in the chair. It can't feel good on his back at all. Is Hannibal worried that if Will sees him at less than one hundred percent - sees him as human - Will is going to fall apart right now? Well, it's a possibility, but that would be his actions and not Hannibal's doing. Doesn't he know that? Will's frown deepens at the thought that he's considered to be this volatile.

Yes, when he thinks of Hannibal it's all impeccable posture that somehow looks comfortable on him. It's crazy overpriced bespoke suits with colors and patterns that _shouldn't_ work but do. It's Hannibal cooking with his sleeves rolled up, wearing a damnable vest while somehow not making a mess. White aprons that usually stay white... It's Hannibal sitting opposite of him, legs crossed, hands folded in his lap, back straight and ready to engage in thought provoking conversation. Like that, Hannibal had been the master of his own realm.

Those scenes had been the familiar. The less familiar had been Hannibal in his own kitchen, bloody, and looking so utterly _betrayed_ and disappointed by _him_. The less familiar had been Hannibal in a damn leather jacket and gloves meant for a motorbike. Hannibal asleep and drugged. Hannibal moving with such care as to hopefully mask his pain.

Then Hannibal mentions commissioning the dining room set _after_ another kitchen altercation. Kitchens. Always kitchens. He'd been shot in the Hobbs' kitchen because Jack hadn't been able to _see_. He'd threatened Hannibal in his kitchen with a gun (and he can vividly recall Hannibal's _flinch_ like it had been just minutes ago, oddly appealing)-- No. Stop thinking about kitchens.

 _'What else, Will? ....'_ Will shakes his head and walks back to Hannibal, obviously done with this little exercise. How can he look and pretend to care about _stuff_ when Hannibal is sitting right there? He didn't care about what objects hung on the wall or the rugs beneath his feet. Candlesticks? A record player. A sculpture in the corner. No. He doesn't want to give them his attention and energy.

"Seeing you pretend..." Will starts as he glances down at Hannibal, coming to stand before him, his feet next to the pillow. His hands come to rest on top of Hannibal's head. This is a risk, a bold move that he hope she's allowed to get away with. Will's fingers stroke through Hannibal's hair as he looks down at Hannibal.

"I know you're in pain. I know you feel vulnerable and loathe it. You don't need... You don't need to pretend otherwise. Not with me. If I am to adjust my mental image of you, I would have it be with an honest one."

* * *

All it takes is the small shake of Will's head for something heavier to settle in Hannibal's shoulders. For a moment it's like a weight has been strapped to them, and then something within them tenses. He draws himself up taller and considers what this might be leading into. Disobedience has been a slippery slope to violence as of late and Hannibal isn't certain how effective he will be if he doesn't brace himself preemptively. So, like a man climbing back to his feet after a great blow, Hannibal centers himself and watches Will walk closer. By the time Will comes to stand in front of him ( _standing_ , not kneeling as he'd asked) Hannibal merely glances up at him enough to almost meet Will's eyes, respectful of his usual desire to avoid eye contact.

In the dark furnishings of the room, they both look pale and exhausted. Hannibal notes how ashen Will's skin still looks and wonders if his own matches, but then Will's hands move up to stroke through his hair. The resulting shiver that streaks down his spine is a fine agony but Hannibal doesn't flinch. He doesn't even blink. The implication that he is pretending is not wrong, but that Will is bringing it up is enough to make him draw up short. Hannibal looks at him, silently assessing, though there is a vast ocean of desire hidden within as Will's touch registers. Truly, if this is intended to be a blow, Will is cruel. Hurting with kindness. Hannibal is almost proud.

He _is_ proud when Will's intent finally makes itself known. It's enough of a surprise to him that Hannibal's frown is almost immediate. He looks at Will and glances up to search his eyes for a few seconds, his own quick and calculating. He is in pain. He is vulnerable. And he does loathe it. It isn't out of the realm of the ordinary for Will to know these things; Hannibal's defenses are down. Yet as Will speaks, as the _style_ of his speech registers, something does tickle at the back of Hannibal's mind.

Will's cadence is familiar. It isn't that he _hasn't_ spoken like this before, but the calm, careful tone is atypical of his general state of being thus far. It takes Hannibal only moments to realize what Will's response reminds him of. A hand passing him a knife, polite, reserved smiles, and the phrase ' _it's **long** pig_ '.

Hannibal closes his eyes. In his mind's eye, he thinks back to the night he'd served the lamb. He thinks of sacrifices, of imago, of honesty versus deceit, and when he reaches a hand out to touch Will's knee, his fingers are so light that it can hardly be called touching.

"Then I would ask to receive the same courtesy, Will. Whatever act this is - intentional or otherwise - I prefer you honest. Tell me. Do _you_ enjoy the chairs, or do I?"

* * *

Hannibal had once spoken of the mirrors in Will's mind reflecting others. Since this afternoon, since more open conversation had passed between them while lying together, Hannibal has been adjusting to what he believes Will _needs_. Will may have brought up the idea of submission, but if Hannibal saw no merit to it, it wouldn't have been entertained in any fashion. Hannibal is attempting to offer him stability, a foundation, grounding, trust -- a great deal of things that are hard to define and harder to carve out a path to.

In the midst of all that, Will has exhausted Hannibal. The twists and turns, the recklessness and Hannibal is unable to predict him with any great accuracy. Hannibal is at his wit's end almost. A part of Will knows that he is stretching Hannibal too far. He's a sponge to those around him and he's been eagerly soaking up Hannibal's concern and effort shown toward him. Compared to Chiyoh's coolness, Hannibal's attention is like being immersed in a bath. He likens it to the warmth and safety of a womb almost. He's ravenous for it. Selfish. After months apart, seeing Hannibal desperate - and knowing that he's caused it - is almost like a reward he wants to steal away and covet.

But when Hannibal closes his eyes, it's in a show of defeat. Will is visibly curious and worried. His hands still in Hannibal's hair. The touch to his knee has him remembering Hannibal wanted him to kneel after the activity. He'd messed up--

He begins to go to his knees when Hannibal speaks up, his hands pulling away. He's surprised, but Will continues his descent. He needs the grounding. It feels safer back on his knees, but now he has to process Hannibal's words.

An act... After tonight's kitchen fiasco, he'd went along with Hannibal, followed him like a puppy to the living room, knelt and nuzzled him. _Will_ hadn't wanted to get up and do the requested activity of familiarizing himself with the room. But he'd done it. Hannibal wanted him to talk and offer insight. Will had done just that.

Hannibal has been doing what he thinks Will needs and Will... "Didn't consciously mean to mirror you," Will replies hesitantly as he settles on his knees on the pillow. Closer to the ground and closer to Hannibal, he does feel better. Better is subjective. He feels more like himself. "Fuck, sorry... I-I like the chairs because they remind me of you. With you out of the equation... I can't say I really care one way or another."

* * *

It's admirable, in a sense. Just as Hannibal is protean, adapting to suit whatever situation requires him in whatever way is necessary, so too does Will hold the same ability. The difference between them is that Hannibal must make a conscious decision to adapt, though it generally takes him only seconds to recover and refocus. Will does it instinctively, though not with everyone. Hannibal thinks back to the way Will had snarled at Freddie Lounds. He thinks about the moment Jack had divulged to him that Will had snapped at him at Buddish's crime scene. He thinks about Will's asocial behavior, his head down, his lips thin, hardly daring to stretch himself thin. Yet like this, here, Will hasn't even thought of the toll it might take on him. Hannibal is quiet for a long moment as he looks at him, and he decides that in a way, this is Will's attempt to be kind, to be helpful. Will may not be _Will_ at present, but he'd done it for Hannibal. While not what he wants, Hannibal can infer meaning.

He can feel the change on the air the moment Will shrugs off the persona like a second skin. It's a different aura. The calm, collected feel of Will's control falls by the wayside and the buzzing chaos that is Will Graham begins to peek through. Will seems confused even though Hannibal doesn't open his eyes to check. He feels as Will's trousers brush against his fingers and he can hear the shifting of weight as Will begins to lower himself, undoubtedly to his knees. For a moment Hannibal considers stopping his descent, but when he opens his eyes and catches sight of Will's face, he believes that this is something Will needs as well. He says nothing.

The soft admission is hesitant, bordering on apologetic, and Hannibal takes in the contrition in Will's posture, the pinch to his brow, the uncertainty blooming behind his eyes like the most dangerous of wild roses. Hannibal regards him and allows the strict lines of control to bleed away. Whether _Will_ had wished his honesty or _he_ had, Hannibal is left uncertain, but Will had been correct (or Hannibal had). If Will is to remake his image of Hannibal, to reform his imago, it cannot be based on lies. Pride makes him wish to stubbornly sit taller and wrest control and autonomy back, but the evening has been exhausting and he believes Will would be able to feel the dishonesty.

"You lost yourself," Hannibal says, and it sounds like reassurance even if the words aren't reassuring. "It is not uncommon for intrusive thoughts to interject and be so shocking that it startles one from their own personality. Most simply feel lost. You have the unique ability to draw on and borrow others. You needn't apologize to me, Will. I would not ask a bird falling from a tree not to spread its wings and fly to save itself. Your empathy is as instinctive to you."

Hannibal touches him then. It's partly for Will, but it is mostly for himself. Hannibal's fingertips brush over Will's cheek, then trail up. They hesitate for a moment at the edge of the stitches upon Will's forehead and then circumvent them in order to push his fingers back through Will's hair. "You did well to humor me regardless of whether or not you did it as yourself."

* * *

Kitchens. Chairs. Did any of it really matter? No... Yes. Unfortunately. The answer is yes, they mattered. In this kitchen with Hannibal nearby he'd apparently been triggered. He'd been unable to separate himself from the goddamn chairs, with wanting to mirror Hannibal's bending. Malleable. That's what Chiyoh had called him. Will's hands fidget by his sides. He doesn't reach out to Hannibal this time. There is no tether and there is no circuit created. Will's sunk like a rock. Like the baby birds from his dream that couldn’t fly, but it's not Hannibal that throws him to his demise, it's himself. The red thread is now an anchor that pulls him down, down--

If he could get lower, he would. Sink into the cushion. Into the floor. Into the very earth beneath the foundation because this house isn’t a home to anyone. Not to him and not even to Hannibal. It's the appearance of security, a skeleton of necessities for them to survive on. He remembers the feeling of turning into water, the sounds of the waves pounding in his head. He hears the ocean pound against the bluff, eroding and changing it and it would never be built back up.

No going back, no shattered teacups reforming.

What if that’s him? What if he slowly wears away? Hadn't he always thought Hannibal would be the one to do it, too? To grind him down. To push and press and pull, but his hand - his actions - had preceded Hannibal raising the blade to Abigail's throat. (It's Will's hand that clutched onto the knife tonight.)

Will is aware on some level that Hannibal is watching him. He's also aware that Hannibal is no longer trying to sit up straight and be the pinnacle of correct posture and unyielding composure. It's a small concession. Will blinks and tries to focus on Hannibal's words. Hannibal sounds understanding. Hannibal is being reasonable. Will doesn't know why that upsets him, why he's expecting to be scolded and perhaps sent away. Hadn't they moved on from that? (God, he hopes--)

It's Hannibal's touch, light, the graze of fingertips up his face that has Will calming some. His own fingers clench into fists to stop himself from fidgeting any further. He shivers from the pleasant tug of Hannibal stroking through his hair again.

"I could probably be you. If I let myself truly see you but... I thought finding you would be the key. I thought you had the answers," Will begins slowly. "But you're just as uncertain as I am." It's a sobering statement. It doesn't fix anything, but clarity is better than the alternative. (He doesn't want to be blind; he wants to be brave.)

* * *

There is nothing in Will's words that don't ring as truth, but they are sharp, barbed, and curled just the same. Like a serrated knife from the back, they glide over Hannibal's skin and then the blade turns and the cut is deep. He doesn't flinch. He doesn't even blink. Yet he believes that surely Will can see the gash he'd left behind, his truth blunt and sharp and difficult to swallow. Hannibal's fingers don't hesitate in Will's hair. He doesn't let so much as a twitch shine through, for at present, that is not what Will needs and that is not what he needs. They are both jumping, Hannibal decides. From the cliff, from the window of the museum, from Will's boat, from everything. Perhaps they will die when they land. Hannibal doesn't care, provided that if he were to reach over, his hand would still find Will regardless.

Will doesn't calm visibly when Hannibal strokes his hair, but there's a feeling in the air, a silent breath between them. Hannibal watches the tension in Will's shoulders that tell him Will's hands are clenched and he wonders briefly what Will wishes he were holding in his hands.

"Uncertainty is not a state I am accustomed to," Hannibal confesses after a pregnant pause. If he focuses hard enough, he can almost feel the bite of Will's damnable red threat encircling his wrist. "Yet with you, I find myself unable to stray from it for long. You are arduous. I have never truly been able to predict you, and it is only a mild comfort to know that not even you are able to predict yourself." Hannibal's fingers stroke back through Will's hair again, slow, feeling the thickness of it, the weight. He remembers the weight and brittleness it had held when it had been caked in blood following Cordell's table. Hannibal rubs it between his fingers in silence, a thoughtful frown upon his lips. It feels healthier to him now, stronger. Perhaps one day he will be able to say the same about Will.

"I am as human as you are, Will, regardless of how little either of us wish to see that. I bleed, I break. I hurt. I heal. My foundation is broader than yours but that does not mean it cannot be compromised. You compromised it." It's said quieter, a secret in the night, and Hannibal's fingers still in Will's hair. He considers him in silence for a long moment, the bow of Will's head, the curve to his spine, the farce of supplication.

"Perhaps my sin was in hiding that. I am a prideful man, Will. I didn't wish you to know my injuries. Physical or otherwise. Chiyoh has been tending to me while I tend to you." He knows that Will is going to piece things together now. How often Hannibal had flinched upon leaning over him, how pale he'd looked while reaching around to bandage and secure Will's shoulder, the meaning behind the stubborn set to Hannibal's jaw when he'd insisted that Will take his medication... His care makes him vulnerable, but Will has forced his hand. Few secrets now. Hannibal almost hates him for it. "I want you to do it tonight. It is your mark upon my skin in every way that counts."

* * *

He doesn't mean to hurt Hannibal, but the truth is seldomly kind. Will knows this and so does Hannibal. They've both dealt with the ugly and troubled in their personal and professional lives. There's never been rose-tinted glasses for them, but Will is beginning to see just how much _vulnerability_ bothers Hannibal. Previously, Hannibal had only lived for himself. A life of outfoxing and maintaining control -- until him. Maybe they've both decimated each other's former selves. Their landscapes forever altered. Familiar, but different, they must learn the new terrain of each other. Are they the blind leading the blind? Will there be a torch to light the way as they walk in the dark hands outstretched with measured careful steps? (But Will's never been a careful man...)

Will looks up at Hannibal. Hannibal's touch continues, fingers stroking through his hair. He's not necessarily soothed, but it's still a small comfort. It holds meaning to Will. It's another incident of touch without violence. Another step into adjusting his image of Hannibal.

A Hannibal who is human, who is struggling -- who has struggled a great deal since their escape. Hannibal calls him 'arduous', Hannibal confesses that, despite being unable to predict him, he can't stay away. That there is a minor comfort that it's the same for Will.

Compromised. (It's said almost like a whispered secret between lovers.)

Compromised. He's a menace to Hannibal functioning optimally. An infection. But love surely has infected them both, running through their veins and touching them everywhere. Affected them. Their attitudes, their actions, their thoughts. No going back. No returning to what was. They both know what loneliness feels like -- their "uniqueness" carving them out from society and setting them aside for each other.

He knows Chiyoh has been taking care of Hannibal. He ought to thank her. The idea tastes bitter to him. Maybe tomorrow. But as Hannibal continues, Will thinks Hannibal is going to be doing less hiding. He has next to no experience taking care of injuries on people and yet he wants--

"I want to care for you too," Will says. It's his own secret softly whispered back. But it's a dangerous thought. Killers caring for killers. Betrayers and the betrayed showing weakness to one another. Will's unsure if he trusts himself with the task. He's pretty sure Hannibal is right there will him. And yet he knows Hannibal will let him try anyway.

Will rises to an upright position on his knees, now eye level with Hannibal. Hannibal's hand remains in his hair. Will's own hands come to rest on Hannibal's bare shoulders. The skin is warm. Will's touch is light, but sure. "I want to kiss you, Hannibal." It's another quiet admission. The brand is his mark and he wants to leave another with his mouth.

* * *

They are feral things. Solitary monsters shrouding themselves in finery. Wolves in suits and luxury, pretending to mind the sheep, pretending to be above base instinct. Yet when it comes down to it, they are both feral things, wolves with hackles raised and tails lifted, asserting dominance, circling with fangs bared and eyes wild. It is the way Hannibal has always believed himself above operating, but like this, with Will, seeing the savagery he's wrought by his own hand, he cannot help the change, the new truth. The problem is that they are both wild creatures, both standing over a kill, greedy and pulling and ready to fight the other off, and yet--

And yet now they must go against instinct. Now instead of guarding the kill, they must step back and allow the other to feed, battling the urge to rip throats and decimate and court selfishness. They must lay and bask and fight back urges inherent to them both until peace and cohabitation become their new normal.

It will never be an easy transition. Will is unstable and Hannibal is cruel. Yet as Will kneels by his feet and Hannibal rips open his vulnerability to bare its tattered mess to Will, he thinks that perhaps this is the first step. Perhaps this is what is needed. To tear themselves open so that Will's red thread may sew them together as a whole instead of two parts. Hannibal's fingers stroke slowly through Will's hair, and Will's admission - that he wants to care for Hannibal as well - is met with a weary look. He wants to believe it; they both do. Whether or not such a thing is possible is another matter entirely.

Two wolves, beaten and injured, silently licking wounds. Hannibal imagines the shift, pictures the wolves tentatively leaning over to care to each others' wounds, and the thought both aches and warms him. Perhaps this is as transient as Will's control but neither of them are the men they once were. They are tired, weary, and beaten down. They're not finished, but dragging themselves back up together will be more effort than doing it one by one.

That Will takes the metaphor directly - rising up onto his knees - is enough to briefly startle Hannibal. He'd been momentarily in his own mind, and while his only physical response is a sudden blink, he adapts. His hand doesn't leave Will's hair. Will's hands lift to his shoulders and Hannibal studies the look on Will's face in silence for a moment; he knows what Will is going to ask the second before he does. Even so, Hannibal's not prepared for the sound of it, the way Will curls the words through the air like calligraphy. He doesn't say that he wants Hannibal to kiss him. His request is stunning in that way. _Will_ wants to kiss _him_ and Hannibal has no defense against a request.

Perhaps it's a poor idea, but the way he closes his eyes for a brief moment shows the extent of the impact of Will's request. His breath catches, agony rips through his back when he shivers in desire, and yet there is no part of him that wishes to deny Will this.

"Then you may," Hannibal says quietly, opening his eyes and looking at Will, kneeling but equal. His hand slides down from Will's hair, curving carefully along the side of Will's face, his jaw, down his neck. Hannibal's hand comes to rest there, his palm against Will's chest and his fingers touching the hollow of his throat. "You have my permission." As if he'd ever _not_ had it. As if Hannibal might have turned him down in the past, like he'd not ached to have Will say those words.

* * *

There's been kisses to his knuckles. Polite and respectful. A courtship almost. Close ( _his_ lips, _his_ mouth), but distant (an appendage, far from Will's own mouth). Will's only kissed one other man and that had been over a decade ago. He doesn't even know if he gets to apply the term bisexual to himself, but Will isn't going to stress about it. Hannibal transcends gender, transcends labels, and it doesn't matter if there's a rougher face. It doesn't matters that there's an absence of makeup and feminine curves. There's no breasts in front of him, just Hannibal free of his shirt, with his chest hair, with his face and arms cut up and his back bearing burnt flesh. None of it matters.

Because he _wants_ this man. Will wants Hannibal. Despite what may be smart, what may be logical, he's sought out and found Hannibal. (Will's truly never been a careful man. Perhaps in another life he would have tried for something else, tried for someone _easier_ , but not this one. Not this one.) Will wants to touch him. Will wants to feel and learn just how _human_ Hannibal really is.

Although there is sexual component very much present, the way Will _wants_ is far deeper. Sex? Yes, at some point, but what Will desires is to see his mark all over Hannibal, Hannibal made ugly as to prevent no other to possibly look and desire him. It's a hideous thought, a selfishness that shouldn't exist and yet it's there. It's something Will never wants to give a voice to, something he doesn't wish to share...

Because love is supposed to be unselfish, isn't it? Love is supposed to be kind and _good_. He remembers the quote about setting something free if you love it, but Will knows he's never going to be able to do that with Hannibal. They could be drowning, their damn red thread tangled and holding them back, and Will's not going to cut it. They're both going down together. His future is Hannibal. His death should be Hannibal too.

By the sudden hitch to Hannibal's breathing, Will knows his statement _voiced_ has caught Hannibal off guard. Unpredictable, he is, although Hannibal knows Will has wanted to do this. Will looks resolutely at Hannibal who closes his eyes to compose himself. Will waits. His eyes flicker to Hannibal's mouth and Will can see the pain in Hannibal from his slight physical reaction.

(Will needs to be careful _here_. To be gentle. Like handling baby birds...)

Hannibal gives him permission like Will knows he would. (The thread pulls them closer.) Hannibal's hand travels down the uninjured side of his face, his jaw, neck and comes to rest on his chest. It almost feels like a reverent moment. Will has the bizarre idea of washing Hannibal's feet like Jesus had with his disciples.

And he would do it. He fucking _would_. It doesn't matter how possibly degrading it would be, Will would do it.

He fights back the urge to grasp onto Hannibal's shoulders tighter. Careful. Gentle. Will licks his lips and he slides a little closer on his knees to Hannibal. He tilts his head slightly to the side and moves in slowly, his eyes wide open. Will's mouth brushes across Hannibal's briefly in a closed-mouthed kiss before he's pulling away a few inches. It's almost nothing and yet it's everything. It's not enough and too much. A promise and fulfillment. Will's heart hammers in his chest and he licks his lips as he moves back to take in Hannibal's expression.

* * *

There is a painful expectation that stretches out between Hannibal and Will after Hannibal gives his permission. It's the definition of apprehension. As Hannibal watches Will wet his lips, a quick flick of his tongue that encourages Hannibal to do the same, he looks at Will and wonders if this is what it feels like to fall. The moment of inevitability before gravity wraps its tendrils around someone, the sudden spike of fear and anticipation and apprehension all at once, the thrill and the terror. All that and more is the way these seconds feel as Will leans in a little closer. Hannibal merely watches him, his breath caught in a knot somewhere in the middle of his chest. In his mind's eye, he reaches for Will and they fall together, for that must be what this is. Nothing else could possibly feel so wrenching and freeing at the same time. All he can do is hope Will's red thread hasn't wound its way around their throats.

Will's eyes don't close and neither do Hannibal's, for it seems almost sacrilege to shut a moment like this out. How long has he ached for this? Months, at least. Years, perhaps. Perhaps from the moment he'd seen Will's discomfort and his volatility in Jack's office. (Hannibal can remember smiling genuinely, caught off guard.) True, this isn't the way he'd imagined it. When he'd allowed himself to indulge, he'd thought of Florence, of Paris, of dark jackets and chilled autumn, of Will huddled in the lee of his body against the bite of the wind. He'd often imagined Abigail running ahead or trailing behind. A picturesque moment, domesticity for monsters. But there are no soft, knowing looks or chilled air, and Abigail's whimsical laugh has been silenced for months. They are raw and broken, bloodied and scarred, riding an edge of trust that hardly exists and the desperation of sheer force of will.

And yet when Will leans in and tilts his head, Hannibal thinks back to the fantasy, to Will's hand on his arm in silent request and the gentle meeting of lips in the chill, and wonders how he'd ever thought the fantasy could sustain him compared to the real thing. Will's eyes are bright and so blue, his movements slower, hesitant. There's uncertainty in his eyes that courts his stubbornness, and Hannibal's focus narrows down to Will. Will's hands on his shoulders, bracing his weight. The ghost of Will's breath over his lips, hot and alive. How bright his eyes are, and how the blue sets off the halting warmth in his cheeks.

The press of lips is hardly a breath. Hannibal tilts his head to the side and hardly dares to breathe as their lips touch. It's careful and brief, so quick that it could have been accidental had Will not stated his intent earlier. Yet for its chasteness, it strikes Hannibal with the force of a physical blow, wrenching something sharply in his chest and turning his back to fire as he shivers again. The kiss can hardly be called a kiss, yet Hannibal is left basking in its warmth regardless. He swears he can feel the lingering touch of Will's lips long after Will has already drawn back.

Will leans away slowly and licks his lips again, and Hannibal aches to curl a hand behind his head and draw him back in for something tangible. He doesn't. Instead he regards Will quietly, but there's a dazed weight to his eyes as his fingers stroke slowly over the marred bruises on Will's throat. Hannibal swallows with a click.

"It's good that you're here, that you chose to remain with me," Hannibal says, his voice almost hoarse with emotion. "I believe I would have done something very dire in order to keep you, Will."

* * *

God, the last person he kissed had been Margot Verger. It'd been a meaningless night for the two of them. Both of them had been pawns in Hannibal's game, both of them lonely. Will had tried his best to read what Margot disliked and avoid such things all the while not looking _too_ closely either. (Because Will had known _he_ wasn't what she really wanted, but desperate people do desperate things all the time and he merely was one of them...)

He'd felt and kissed Margot much more than Hannibal, and yet it's Hannibal who thoroughly obliterates Will's last experience. Actually, the scraps and limited contact eclipse _every_ one of his measly past experiences. It makes no logical sense but matters of the heart don't follow logic. He's never had an easy time with sex and romance and usually alcohol played a role in any of Will's successes. But he's not drugged now nor is he dulled by whiskey. Will is left shaken, but he doesn't shake. He's left wanting, but unable to take anymore.

The feel of Hannibal's lips stays with him far longer than it should for such a short and light kiss. There's a warmth that Will craves to experience more of, but Will knows he's not going to move back in and kiss again. (Not yet not now, but soon. Yes, soon.)

_'I believe I would have done something very dire in order to keep you, Will.'_

Hannibal's admission... On the one hand it mirrors Will's own selfishness, but on the other it proves Hannibal is dangerous. Will had brought up the idea of him leaving, he'd mentioned being afraid of what Hannibal would do (because Will's not a captive, right?) and Hannibal has all but confirmed that that _won't_ be happening.

But why should he leave? While apart, Hannibal had dominated his mind and dreams, a phantom haunting him. While in the hospital, sewn back together and rocking his colostomy bag, Will had had ample time to revisit their complicated history. He'd been searching for hints, signs that would illuminate Hannibal's motivations and feelings toward him. He'd been scrutinizing his own behavior too... (' _Because... Because he was my friend. And because I wanted to run away with him...'_ )

Will has his answers now, or at least a few more insights. It's a start.

"Keep me and I'll keep you," is what Will murmurs in response and swallows. He looks down a moment, staring at his left hand that rests on Hannibal's shoulder still. It's such a simple contact, but all these points feel warm and right and yet Will's nervous. "Should bandage you up again," comes out of Will's mouth. It's not necessarily what he wants to do, but a distraction should help him.

* * *

This is not the direction that they were supposed to take this evening but Hannibal can't find it in himself to be bothered by it. There is a vulnerability in this shared experience, Will on his knees, offering Hannibal vulnerability in return for the insight that Hannibal had allowed him to see. They are not the men they once were. Life has shackled and collared them both, tied them down, left them to rot. Yet the both of them have broken free and despite injury, despite pain, and despite unpredictability, they are together. Ultimately this is all Hannibal needs. So long as they are together, they can struggle their way through a mutual understanding. Perhaps it will never be smooth. Perhaps they will never truly be able to see and accept the other the way they wish, but _together_ is better than _apart_.

Will looks as shaken as Hannibal feels as he draws back. The urge to chase his lips, to hold Will's healing face in his hands and pull him into a real kiss is almost staggering. Hannibal doesn't. To kiss Will now, again, to force the issue registers as unkind. Rude. Instead his fingers touch the hollow of Will's throat and the memory of pressure and warmth knits itself into his mind. Hannibal can almost feel the wings of his memory palace reconstructing, adding an entirely different wing on that is all _Will_ and affection.

 _'Keep me and I'll keep you_ ,' Will says, and all Hannibal can do is nod. To do anything else feels sacrilege.

When Will makes his request, Hannibal hesitates but ultimately he nods again. When it comes down to it, this is the imago Will needs. He needs to reshape his foundations, and if rewriting his mental image of Hannibal will help ground him, then so be it. Hannibal's pride aches at the _idea_ that Will could see him in a vulnerable light but he dashes his concerns away as unimportant. Vulnerability had earned him that kiss. If Will responds to bared honesty, Hannibal will comply.

"Yes, you should. Stand for me," Hannibal instructs, though he hardly needs to. The shroud of dominance has shifted but in the event that Will finds comfort in the command, in the excuse, Hannibal will continue.

He rises with Will, slowly getting to his own feet, and immediately Hannibal's hand slides down Will's chest, trailing over his shirt, his side, and then around to his back. He touches until their fingers brush once more and then he gently laces their fingers together. He's quiet, contemplative, and then he looks towards the stairway. Will needs to rewrite his mental image, and Hannibal has already showed him what he had been willing to do to _save_ Will. He should also show him how little he'd cared _without_ him.

"Would you change another bandage for me, Will? The back of my right leg."

* * *

He'd rather stare into Hannibal's face and memorize every angle, take in every permanent wrinkle and the temporary cuts and bruises there on his skin. Will would rather this heated moment of longing and repression continue on. He wants to intimately remember this moment, of the battle between desire and inaction. It's a struggle that he doesn't exactly mind, for it's one that won't destroy him. Because Hannibal is here, and they're going to take care of each other. (' _Keep me and I'll keep you._ ' Surely their thread will embroider this upon their skin, a promise that will sew them together. _Conjoined_ , physically. Their own mural of bodies, but this time, the bodies are willing.)

But Will knows it would be best to move on. This closeness with Hannibal feels like something that needs to be sparingly indulged. They've only let their fingertips graze across the surface and Will feels like there's a real risk to drowning. This moment won't be forgotten. Oh no. This is significant for them both. It's proof erected as a monolithic display on their new landscape; it's tangible evidence that they can be gentle and tender, that they can be honest and vulnerable.

Hannibal had been the one to mention re-bandaging, so Hannibal nods at Will's suggestion. Will can see the flickers of desire in Hannibal's eyes and he thinks Hannibal is restraining himself more than he is. (This has a dual feeling of heat pooling in Will's stomach as well as a spark of panic.) Hannibal doesn't ask him to stand, but the command is hardly needed. Will isn't interested in fighting Hannibal in this. He'll try (and hopefully do better than his endeavor of dish drying.)

They stand together and Hannibal's wandering touch feels warm and almost bold. Other than checking on his wounds, Hannibal hasn't touched him much save for his hands or his face. But now Hannibal's hand touches down his chest, his side, his back. Will doesn't know if he wants to squirm away to push into it.

Like their kiss, it doesn't last long and their hands are then connected once more. Even though they've only done it a few times, it's markedly safer and more familiar. Will lets their fingers intertwine and feels stability in this simple state. He's never been a huge fan of the quintessential displays of affection and attraction and even now he's wondering how he'll manage to be around Hannibal under Chiyoh's judgmental gaze. And problem for later.

Hannibal's question jolts Will back into the present situation: him bandaging Hannibal's back. Apparently another injury is going to be exposed to him too: Hannibal's right leg. Will's noticed the occasional limp (when Hannibal thinks he's not looking, of course.)

This is Hannibal willingly being vulnerable for him.

"Yeah, sure," Will replies, hoping to sound more composed than he feels. "I'll try my best. You'll have to instruct."

* * *

Hannibal looks back at Will, silently tracing the line of his face, silently _wanting_ , but he has long denied himself his desires. They hadn't been proper in the past and now they are only just edging out onto this unpredictable thin ice. Hannibal can feel it bowing and bending under his feet and he knows it will fissure and crack if he reaches for Will boldly. It doesn't stop the desire, it doesn't temper his want, but he's not a man ruled by it. He doesn't miss the way Will's scent begins to edge towards fear for merely a moment, and he doesn't miss the way it eases back once he keeps his own desire to move back in and kiss Will properly in check. Too much too soon. Hannibal simply basks in the knowledge that they have shared a moment of intimacy, regardless of how fleeting.

He doesn't want to bare himself to Will. He doesn't want to pull back the curtain on his vulnerability and show him. Yet this is the only way they will ever improve. So Hannibal nods when Will confirms that he will help, and Hannibal merely squeezes Will's hand.

His back to Will, Hannibal turns and leads the way upstairs. It's agony; every moment of his skin pulling tight as his muscles work has the raw, tight flesh of the brand pulling and aching. He doesn't complain. Instead Hannibal merely looks up at the stairway and this time he doesn't bother to mask the difficulty he struggles with. He leans into the railing the way he's ached to, and the skin along his back pulls tight enough to clearly pain him as he walks upstairs. Yet despite his pain, Hannibal still stands strong. Pain is not a hindrance to him. He can handle it.

Hannibal is quiet as he leads the way to his bedroom, and only once he's standing inside the room does he reluctantly release Will's hand. "Wait here," Hannibal tells him, though with a lingering touch to his hand. Hannibal looks at him and then ducks into the connected bathroom, withdrawing the first aid kit and antiseptic. The majority of the bandages are in the bedroom and so Hannibal merely turns and makes his way back into the room. Once there, he steps over to his bed, opens a small pill bottle, and downs two pills - antibiotics to ensure no infection can take root. Then he turns back to Will.

For a moment, Hannibal merely looks at him. Then he slowly takes a seat on the edge of the bed and pats the place beside him. "Come here, Will." Hannibal gingerly reaches for the bedside table and opens a drawer. Within, he removes large, contained strips of gauze and rolls of bandages. "You'll wash your hands first, in the bathroom. When you come back, you're to apply ointment to the brand and then these bandages--" he indicates the large wrapped gauze strips "--will be placed flat against the brand. You'll then wrap rolled gauze around the strips you've set in place. Start at the brand and wrap it around my chest and shoulders, as you would were you wrapping a sprain. If at any point you feel unable to continue, tell me."

* * *

Nothing else is said as they leave the living room and head toward the stairs. Hannibal's shirt is still on the kitchen floor with the shredded bandages. The fillet knife is still in the sink. Will's stack of orderly dry dishes remain on the counter top. Will briefly wonders how it would look to Chiyoh when she returned. Stacked plates. Lined up cutlery. Sink with cool water, the bubbles having long vanished. Hannibal's damn shirt on the floor... Discarded bandages. The last addition probably ruins the idea that they simply got swept away in some passionate embrace with an article of clothing needing to come flying off.

Will allows himself to be lead. He knows Chiyoh's tended to Hannibal in Hannibal's room, so that's their destination. The stairs are not an easy passage for Hannibal to endure. It's obvious that the stretching of the skin is quite painful and this time Hannibal does not attempt to hide the discomfort. It's slow going with Hannibal leaning and taking the rail while Will tries his best to not lag behind.

There's a feeling of relief for Will when they finally get to the top. Will squeezes Hannibal's hand as they continue their journey (thankfully it's not too much further). When they enter Hannibal's room, Will glances around the area. It's the first time he's really been able to look at it (with the lights on and not just in passing). There's a few more personal touches here, but ultimately it reminds Will of the rest of the house.

Told to wait, Will does just that. After visiting the attached bathroom, Hannibal returns with some supplies and takes a few pills (not for pain, Will's sure because he's still not really trusted). Will sits bedside Hannibal on the bed and as he's instructed, Will looks at the gauze and tube of ointment and tries to not feel overwhelmed by the gravity of the upcoming task. Hannibal makes it sound simple enough, but Will barely feels prepped. Still, he rises when Hannibal finishes and walks to the bathroom.

He rolls up his sleeves and washes his hands. He avoids looking up and into the mirror. Will doesn't want to see his reflection. Dressed in Hannibal's clothing, bruises peeking out on his neck and face all bandaged up. Franken-Will who's trying his hand at caretaker...

He takes a steadying breath and joins Hannibal back on the bed. Will ignores the dull ache in his shoulder as he unscrews the cap off the ointment. "Okay, here goes..." Will warns after the fingertips on his left hand are coated with a medicated ointment of some kind. Will shifts a little to get a better position on the brand.

It's an unsightly thing to face, but this is Hannibal making a gesture for him. This is more than a practical necessity and they both know it. Will's hand isn't steady as he reaches out and smears the brand with the ointment. Will remembers his own ugliness, an urge to have his brand all over Hannibal, to transform Hannibal into an undesirable.

The bandaging goes without a hitch. Hannibal only guides if Will seems to flounder and in ten minutes the mark is once again hidden away. "Leg time? Do roll your slacks up or...?" Will can feel his face warm a little at the thought. Undressing is another one of those intimacies.

* * *

The ordeal is not pleasant, though it is necessary. Will takes great care not to injure him, for which Hannibal is grateful, but ultimately there is little he can do against the agony of a burn. There are places where Hannibal is blessedly numb, though 'blessedly' is a word he thinks sparingly, for numbness means permanent nerve damage. Ideally following a brand as such, immediate medical attention would be the focus, but as they have no such luxuries, antibiotics, keeping the wound clean, and changing bandages is the best possible scenario. Protein-rich foods, rest, and minimizing trauma to the site are all an of them can do. So Hannibal gives Will the instructions and sits still, making his back a canvas for Will's care.

He's so careful that it borders on maddening in places, but ultimately Will does a good job. A few times his touch is too heavy but Hannibal doesn't penalize him for it. Instead he merely withstands the sting and breathes slow and deep, almost mindfully. Ointment is applied, and then Will follows his instructions as he lays the gauze strips over the burn. As always, they sting and Hannibal closes his eyes against it, but they are necessary to keep the wound clean. Hannibal guides Will when he seems uncertain but it doesn't take Will long to finish. Looking down at the criss-crossing bandages on his chest and shoulders, once Will is finished, Hannibal gingerly rolls his shoulders to test the resistance and a small, pleased sound falls from his lips. "Very well done, Will. Thank you."

Will's clear uncertainty over what Hannibal intends to do in order to reach the wound on his leg is somewhat charming, but after a quick consideration of his slacks, Hannibal shakes his head. "I'm afraid the wound is higher on my calf and it would risk tearing stitches to do," Hannibal says. "If you'd like to look away, you're welcome to. I mean nothing untoward."

It's the only warning he gets before he gingerly stands. He has no belt to struggle with, so the zipper and button on his slacks are simple to undo. Hannibal spares only a quick look at Will to ensure this is not too far, but in the end, Hannibal merely eases his slacks down over his legs, taking them off one leg at a time. These he drapes over the back of a chair and then he eases himself back onto the bed. The bandage on his leg is broad, wrapped carefully, but Hannibal reaches down to very slowly undo it, taking care not to catch it on his stitches or pull too quickly.

This wound is far less pretty, the skin still red, blood still spotting the bandages, dried plasma still seen left behind. Hannibal doesn't wince; deep as the injury is, it's far overshadowed by the burn. He turns once the bandages are off, and he slowly lowers himself down onto the bed, on his stomach. It leaves the back of his leg open to the air. The wound is dark red with scabs, though slightly hot to touch with a mild infection that has been getting better day by day. It's long and jagged, a good four inches long. Hannibal eases his pillow closer and rests his chin down on it, then looks back at Will over his shoulder.

"It looks worse than it is. It needs to be wiped down with one of the packets in the kit. Then ointment applied, gauze, and wrapped bandages. Just as you did before."

* * *

Will's not necessarily afraid of Hannibal taking off his pants. Hannibal is not a rapist, and even if he was, he's hardly in the physical condition to be wanting to engage in such a thing. Will's actually trying to consider Hannibal's pride. It's already difficult enough for Hannibal to show weakness, maybe he would like privacy in undressing. That's what Will had believed.

But Hannibal seems fine. Hannibal is more worried about _his_ discomfort. Figures. Hannibal means 'nothing untoward' with it all. The damn phrasing... It's almost enough to get Will to crack an amused smile but then Hannibal is standing and just going for it. Will's about to ask if he needed help, but his hesitancy is enough time for Hannibal to manage the task on his own. Will stands dumbly, a tool waiting to do its job.

Apparently his job isn't too even remove the old bandage. Hannibal takes care of that too. Will feels momentarily bothered, but these are _Hannibal's_ wounds and Hannibal's a doctor. While he may not be at his best, he's going to be more steady and capable than Will is. Will says nothing as he watches Hannibal carefully remove them and then lie down on the bed.

It's a sobering task. No small talk can ease the almost palpable heaviness. Nerves keep Will focused. Given the location on Hannibal's calf, someone else would have had to stitch it up afterward.. Chiyoh? If it was from the Farm it would have been Chiyoh, but if it had been from the fight with Jack, Bedelia would have likely been the one to care for Hannibal. The thought is a bitter one. He's tempted to inquire, but now doesn't feel like the time. Hannibal has given much tonight. Will is going to give him a break. It's the least he can do.

Will now knows Hannibal had carried him from Muskrat Farm and in the snow with such heinous injuries... Is a thank you in order? Like apologies, gratitude seems like it would fall flat. Words mean little in the end. Supplies within reach, Will settles on the bed. Hannibal is on his stomach, only in socks and boxers. So fucking human, but mutilated. Like this, Will can look for other, older scars... He doesn't really find anything, at least nothing that compares to the brand and the jagged gash to his leg. (He doesn't know how he feels about that. The older Hannibal less wise and more reckless? More prone to injury?)

Once more, Will follows Hannibal's instructions. He's quiet and serious, each action careful. The wound looks much more primal... Flesh torn. "I want to sleep next to you... Not tonight, but soon," Will murmurs when he's done. His hand comes to rest on Hannibal's low back, well below the bandages.

He may want it all (or shades of certain things), but Will's not necessarily _ready_ for it all.

* * *

Hannibal has done many things for Will, but of everything, this is what seems the most daunting. It isn't carrying him through the snow. It isn't tending to his wounds. It's this, laying prone on his bed and letting Will see the extent of his injuries. For a man like Hannibal, so often wrapped in layers upon layers, to be literally and figuratively laid bare is a lot to handle. Perhaps his trust is misplaced. Perhaps he shouldn't be so willing to show his weakness in front of a man like Will Graham, but if Hannibal wishes transparency then he must also be transparent. He cannot expect Will's honesty without offering his own first. So this is his truth, offered to Will like a sacrifice, his pain, his blood, his suffering laid bare.

He rests quietly as Will works. Hannibal doesn't move. He feels the sting of antiseptic and closes his eyes against the cleaning of the wound. The stitches protest a few times but ultimately they stay together, as they should. He's been doing himself no favors by walking about and keeping active when his body requires rest, but Hannibal is a man of layers and this is his core. Maybe he needs to rest, but he doesn't feel like he can.

Will is quiet, serious. His touch is tentative in places. Hannibal bears each touch, every press of his fingers. He can feel Will's hesitation as he touches Hannibal's skin and he can feel the uncertainty present. Hannibal says nothing. He allows the silence to simply exist, and he moves his leg as Will needs him to as Will changes the bandages and re-wraps his leg as per Hannibal's instructions.

It's only when the gauze has been tied off that Will speaks, and Hannibal goes still. For a moment he simply lays there, surprised. Perhaps it had been too much to hope for, but the idea of Will staying, of Will sharing his bed _that_ evening had crossed his mind. They've slept next to one another before, and the protest does come to Hannibal's mind before he gently guides it away. He sighs, lower, fortifying, and then he nods, finally opening his eyes in order to look back over his shoulder at Will.

"When you are ready, you will be welcome. Provided you are comfortable with the idea, I have no complaints."

He remembers Will silently admitting to being afraid. He remembers the fillet knife in the sink. Perhaps 'comfort' and 'readiness' are concepts that they will not be able to properly monitor until something happens. Regardless, Hannibal has made his choice. He's felt the warmth of Will's lips and held his bloodied body close. There is no turning back from Will Graham. Not now.

"Thank you for your help, Will," Hannibal says, lowly.

* * *

While they had napped with each other earlier in the day and at Will's request, a night together holds a different meaning. The night... The night is for the secrets and monsters, isn't it? There's comfort in the shadows, but also the threat of the sinister intentions. Will wants to trust Hannibal. He does. When do the scales tip finally? How much must Hannibal do - what must he all do - for Will to believe that there's safety and not a blade? For Will to believe he is going to remain whole?

Hannibal is bandaged up now. Will's unsure hands have touched injuries laid bare for him. His fingers are coated with ointment and yet his hand simply remains resting well beneath the brand. Will's in no real hurry to scamper off, although it's tempting to because Will has a feeling that Hannibal wanted him to stay tonight and disappointing Hannibal - falling short in some way - honestly sucks. As much as it may suck, Will knows Hannibal isn't going to let him take it back.

Truthfully, Will aches for Hannibal's stupid leather jacket to be clutched to his chest. It's an inanimate object. It can't hurt him and it can't touch him back. Like the imago, it will never be enough, but for tonight it can possibly pacify Will. That's his plan anyway.

"If... If you could have Chiyoh stop locking your door... That'd be nice, too, " Will adds on. There. In case he wants to pay Hannibal a visit, the option is there. He pulls his hand away and stands up. "Going to go now... Goodnight?"

It's hardly a smooth exit, but Will needs to retreat. He leaves Hannibal's bedroom, the string unraveling to allow them space, but still not breaking.


	6. A compromised man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannibal's power over Will hinges _entirely_ on Will's permission over him, but this is the first time Hannibal believes that Will understands that on a visceral level. Every movement is rife with: _Can I trust you?_ Hannibal intends for the only answer to be _yes._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TO THE EXPLICIT RATING WE GO... (*•̀ᴗ•́*)و ̑̑ ♡
> 
> Will is written by merrythoughts ([tumblr](http://merrythought.tumblr.com))  
> Hannibal/Chiyoh written by Dapperscript/reallymisscoffee ([tumblr](http://reallymisscoffee.tumblr.com/))

Will doesn't stay that evening, and Hannibal doesn't ask him to. They sleep separately, but despite this, Hannibal still rises at midnight to silently unlock his door, just in case. It's something he speaks to Chiyoh about at breakfast the following morning, and while her lips thin in displeasure (particularly after the mess of dishes, bandages, and clothing she'd found in the kitchen the night before) she reluctantly agrees, though with heavy caution. Hannibal acknowledges the concern but still lets it slide. When Will comes down an hour later for breakfast, Hannibal merely regards him and stands up to pull out his chair for him. Chiyoh looks away.

It takes her almost two weeks for her curiosity to rise enough to say something. Hannibal watches and waits, as he doesn't doubt that it's coming, but he's still a little surprised when she meets him in the dining room after dinner one evening, Will already supposedly retired for the night. Hannibal looks up as she takes a seat, two glasses of wine in her hands. The cloth he'd been rubbing over the top of the dining room table stills and he watches as she sets the fluted glasses down on the table. He's quiet, and then he nods decisively. "One moment."

He leaves to get two coasters and sets them down. If Chiyoh protests the interruption, she doesn't say so. Instead she merely sits tall, nods, and waits for Hannibal to gingerly sit down before looking him over slowly.

"You no longer smell of fever. He has been caring for your injuries properly?"

"He has." Hannibal nods, taking care in reaching for his wine. The shift of his muscles still stings but the pain isn't quite as blinding as it had been. It's close. "He has taken to it quite readily. I believe transparency has been helping him settle."

"And you believe it was a wise decision to trust him."

Hannibal merely glances at her and then tips his head. "I appear to be alive and no more injured than before. Yes, I'd say so." He swirls his wine around in the bowl of the glass and inhales the aroma. Perhaps it's hardly what he had on hand before, but that Chiyoh had thought of it is enough for him. "Lack of purpose leads to spiraling thoughts. By giving him something to do, he becomes less likely to injure himself."

"You place too much trust in him," Chiyoh says then, and the statement is so sudden and final that it even gives Hannibal pause. Chiyoh is quiet for as long as it takes to lift her wine to her lips. She stares fixedly ahead, thoughtful. Then she swallows and glances at Hannibal. The look is just shy of sharp and there is clear concern in her eyes. "I recall what he was about to do to you in Florence, Hannibal. I believe you do as well. He is not a stable man. You speak of settling, of stability, but shy of bandaging your wounds, what proof have you that he's changed?"

"What proof has he that _I've_ changed?" Hannibal counters simply, always playing, always the Devil's Advocate. He begins to lean back in his seat before he masks a small grimace and eases himself away from the back of the chair again. His fingers brush against the wood; Will had believed the chairs were very him. "He has sufficiently altered his behaviors enough to quiet the majority of my concern."

Chiyoh frowns, and the look on her face is clouded with doubt. Though she sits tall, the mild rhythm her fingers tap out on the stem of the wine glass says it all for her. She's concerned. "He is a wild dog with no master. He's starving and cold and he prefers it, for it keeps him unchained. Risk chaining him--"

"--and he might settle into his new role in time," Hannibal finishes. He catches the deepening frown on Chiyoh's lips but dismisses it as he brings his wine to his own. Hannibal sips at it and pretends like he can't hear the shifting coming from across the hall. They have a bird in the eaves, so to speak, waiting with wide eyes and bated breath. "My door has remained unlocked for the last two weeks and he hasn't created trouble. He's been courteous and respectful, and he's been taking great care to allow my assistance in changing his bandages and allowing himself to change mine. As per my request, he comes down for meals every day even if it offers him no true comfort to do so. In certain cases, one must measure the level of change for the individual, not change overall."

To her credit, Chiyoh does go silent. She considers this, thoughtful. Her jaw may be tight with displeasure as she has made her dislike of Will Graham no secret, but she will not crucify another unjustly. The only issue is that Will has done more than enough to be crucified in her book. His one saving grace is how much Hannibal cares for him, regardless of how little sense it makes. "When I returned home, there were bandages."

Hannibal pauses. He glances at Chiyoh, and then he nods. "That I removed of my own volition, as keeping my injuries from him offered Will no benefit. Merely my own pride. With respect, I am afraid that certain events that have transpired cannot be shared freely. I will not compromise his trust any more than I would compromise yours."

The nod Chiyoh responds with is respectful, if frustrated. She sighs. "You are willfully blind. A lonely wolf who has glimpsed a fox in the woods. Your desperation opens you to his silver tongue."

"I am." Hannibal hums a soft, toneless note. Then he glances over at the stairwell. "Though is companionship not worth the risk? Would you rather I remain alone?"

"I would rather you remain _alive_. He's not--"

"-Before you continue," Hannibal cuts in, raising a slow hand to quell Chiyoh's building argument. "I should tell you that this conversation is not private." He pauses and watches as Chiyoh's mouth closes. She darts a look toward the stairwell and then looks back at Hannibal, who nods. "Perhaps this conversation is best left saved."

Shifting just enough, Hannibal looks back over to the doorway. Across from him, Chiyoh's lips thin but she merely takes her glass of wine and stands. With a short dip of her head, she steps around the table and moves, walking in the direction of her room. Hannibal watches until he deems it safe. "Will? If you'd like to, you are welcome to join me."

* * *

Unlike their first week, the weeks that follow are uneventful in comparison. There's a budding, hesitant trust between them. It's a delicate thing. Like the birds. But every day that passes is proof that perhaps there is safety to be found with Hannibal and not a hidden blade. It should perhaps feel stranger to find himself sharing meals with these two enigmatic people day in and day out, but Will doesn't want to think of himself as a prisoner here. So, he comes to most meals and he has a growing appreciation for the art of small talk (he's getting better...).

Sure, Chiyoh still gives him chilly looks. She chooses to focus on his desperation and recklessness -- to not forget what he's done. The image of him going for Hannibal with a knife in Florence is imprinted on her mind. It's the single most important thing about him other than the meddling with her prisoner. He knows she'll always ready to squeeze the trigger with him or push him from a train. Talking with her would probably help, but Will's not in any sort of mood to try and _prove_ anything or defend himself. It seems like a daunting task. He's going to pass on more conversations about foxes and wolves.

He no longer has to wear bandages over the injuries on his face. It's a small victory for time and patience. After showers, Will sometimes styles his longer bangs to cover the cut on his forehead -- Hannibal's thwarted attempt to peer inside his mind. He wonders if it matters. Open wounds on the inside, a scar on the outside --nearly all the significant marks on his body have been from battle with Hannibal in one way or another. Franken-Will. He remembers feeling like the walking dead, of Pazzi's words (' _you are already dead_ ') and it's hard to not think of Georgia Madchen and everyone else who'd been burnt in the course of his dealings with Hannibal.

Hannibal had killed before him and Hannibal will kill after him. Will had tried to assert that _his_ opinion on the kills should be enough for Hannibal, that they decide who to kill _together..._ based on what? Some criteria of evil versus Hannibal's rudeness and whimsy scale. Will's still not sure about attempting to collar him.

While they have not kissed again or shared a bed yet, Will's hands have become steadier in treating Hannibal's wounds. There's an odd calmness that settles over him when he takes care of Hannibal. ' _Keep me and I'll keep you,'_ he'd told Hannibal.

He decides to seek out Hannibal's company tonight. Will's in a soft black sweater he found hung up in the closet (he doesn't want to think of the cost). He's wearing what _he_ calls pyjama pants but Hannibal refers to as sleep pants. Upon descending the stairs, Will's greeted to the sound of voices. He's halfway down the stairs but then curiosity gets the better of him and he stops. His head is inclined in the direction of Hannibal's and Chiyoh's voices. Their conversation is pretentious. Hannibal defends him, and Will listens to the verbal dance. He used to dance with Hannibal, but perhaps never like that.

He's somewhat taken back when the conversation veers into the events of an evening that had bandages cut off and falling to the kitchen floor. ' _Your desperation opens you to his silver tongue,'_ Chiyoh says and Will licks his lip. He's not sure just how clever and eloquent his tongue is, but--

After a few more exchanges Hannibal ends the conversation by bringing attention to the eavesdropper -- him. Will continues his way down the stairs. He's unperturbed as he watches Chiyoh hurry off into her room. Silly pet.

He bypasses the kitchen to the living room and retrieves the same pillow he'd knelt on previously. Will returns and the throw pillow is placed on the floor and to the side of Hannibal's chair. With no fanfare, Will lowers himself to his knees and he's nuzzling at Hannibal's thigh again.

"Do you like my silver tongue?" Will asks.

* * *

Hannibal's attention falls onto the glass of wine on the table. He considers standing and retrieving the bottle in order to pour a glass for Will, but given how much pain medication he's taken, it might be counterproductive. Until he can ask, he reluctantly sits on the urge and instead pushes his own wine away so as not to come across as boastful. Then Hannibal looks back and watches as Will peers out into the kitchen. Hannibal doesn't miss the blank look he sends Chiyoh (still no love lost, it seems) nor does he miss the icy one Chiyoh sends him in return even after walking by. Hannibal merely observes, quiet, curious, and he waits until Chiyoh has retreated into her room and shut the door before he turns back to look at Will directly.

As Hannibal watches, Will steps past him, walking instead to the living room. Curious, he merely observes and then when Will comes back to the dining room with a familiar cushion, Hannibal gives a barely-perceptible start. Interesting.

Despite the growing favor between them and the tentative peace, this is not something that they have revisited. Hannibal has made a point to keep Will away from the kitchen whenever possible, and while he has asked Will to perform small tasks in the house - helping him fold laundry and opening windows to let the mugginess inside out - they haven't been substantial. He hasn't thrown away the possibility of work grounding Will, but given how serious the moment between them had been those weeks ago, he's been hesitant to begin. So watching Will simply walk into the dining room to place the pillow down on the floor next to Hannibal's chair is surprise enough. Will actually lowering himself down immediately makes Hannibal go still.

He's uncertain what has prompted this moment, if anything. While Will hasn't shared his bed, and while they have not traded anything more than that one soft brush of a kiss, that doesn't mean that they've not been close. Will's hands have learned his injuries, as has Hannibal learned his. So that Will is kneeling beside him, his stubble catching on the wool of Hannibal's slacks hard enough that he can feel the scratch through them shouldn't be a surprise, but it still is.

Hannibal is quiet for a moment, simply contemplative. They've not discussed this and a part of him wishes to, but perhaps there is freedom in a lack of assigned roles. Though Will is a mystery to him, he does know that Will doesn't do anything without a reason. Hannibal looks at him and then simply reaches a hand out. His fingers work slow through Will's hair, curling in it and giving it a soft tug before relaxing.

"Yes. I believe your companionship is worth the risk, Will. You heard everything, then?" Hannibal asks, curious.

* * *

Right now Will may be a faithful dog by Hannibal's side, but he's pretty sure it's cats who nuzzle like this, who rub their faces to transfer scents. Will remembers his petty remark to Chiyoh about Hannibal not playing "name that scent" game with her anymore... He now wonders if Hannibal smells like him. Will knows he'd rub himself daily on Hannibal to ensure that Hannibal is clearly marked by him. (Hannibal has enough marks, they both do, and yet Will would see Hannibal claimed in any and all ways. The urge sits uneasy with him. He remembers the rather ugly thought for Hannibal to be mutilated just so no one else would desire him...)

It's been weeks since he's kneeled. Will doesn't even know if Hannibal _wants_ him to do this. Is the domination-submission thing still on the table for them? Will's been trying his damndest to behave and while doing that it hadn't seemed important to bring it up. (How does he bring up something like that anyway?)

What he does know is that Hannibal defending him to Chiyoh gives him a warm feeling in his chest. It's a feeling Will wants to greedily gather close and hoard it like something precious. He wants to covet it, indulge it--

So he'll go to his knees for Hannibal and rub the uninjured side of his face against Hannibal's thigh, feeling the texture of the pants. It's affection, it's hiding his eyes and it's closeness. He's safe down here, right? He can't get into trouble. No knives and no waiting cliffside. Hannibal's hand is in his hair, fingers calming and familiar as they rake through the strands.

"Heard enough," Will replies, stilling and letting his cheek just rest on Hannibal's thigh. Will's hands are in his lap, fingers playing at the hem of his own sweater. "She believes I'm a risk to you when in fact... Well, I guess she wouldn't be concerned whether or not I'm a danger to _myself_." Will can imagine her feeling rather relieved if he was taken out of the equation. "Other than to throw my recklessness back at you as proof that I'm not good for you."

* * *

It is no secret that Will and Chiyoh don't enjoy each other's company. The analogy of a cat and a dog comes to Hannibal's mind - Will kneeling at his feet for attention while Chiyoh stalks off on her own - but the reality is much more complicated than that. Hannibal allows himself to silently look in the direction Chiyoh had gone, contemplative. Then he glances back down at where Will has settled at his feet. He watches as Will nuzzles in closer, rhythmic, soothing, and even as Hannibal's fingers slide through Will's hair, he has to wonder if this is because he'd approved of what Hannibal had said. Will may be the one on his knees, but Hannibal gets the distinct feeling that he is the one being trained in this moment. Clever.

Will soon ceases nuzzling and instead rests there, the warmth of his skin bleeding through the grey herringbone slacks he's chosen as his resting place. Hannibal's fingers still in Will's hair but he doesn't move his hand away.

"Chiyoh has long been loyal to my family. In my youth, I earned and squandered that loyalty. She is doing nothing now that is not in her nature, though I understand your reservations. She does believe you a risk to my safety." Hannibal watches the way Will's fingers fuss at his sweater and he silently admires the picture he makes. Increased blood flow to his shoulder will only serve him well now, and heat will help speed healing. While it’s sometimes painful for Hannibal to do the same, the navy dress shirt he’s chosen to wear for the evening is non abrasive against his skin.

"But ultimately she is not the one who chooses for me. She may protest but she cannot dictate and she's aware of that. But I would be remiss were I to muzzle her concerns. Given what little she knows, her conclusions aren't impossible. I've merely kept your secrets from her as I'll keep hers from you." There are events that are not his to tell. Chiyoh isn't welcome to Will's secrets any more than Will is welcome to hers. Hannibal is many things but he is not irresponsible or unfair. He allows his words to sink in for a moment and then he simply strokes his fingers back through Will's hair again, nails gently scratching at his scalp.

"Do you feel you're a danger to yourself, Will? That you're not good for me?" Hannibal asks. He even sounds calm, merely curious.

* * *

Will knows very little about Chiyoh and Hannibal's relationship and history, but he knows enough. He remembers the few scraps she'd willingly shared with him. If anything she's more fiercely private than Hannibal, a mystery that remains tightly wound. At least when it came to him. Of course it makes sense. His history with Chiyoh, while perhaps not as tumultuous as Hannibal and his own, is not a pretty picture. He'd maneuvered her into killing. A brush with Will Graham had changed years of solitude and a steadfast belief in not taking a life.

But Chiyoh is dead set on playing Hannibal Lecter's watchful guardian. Under normal circumstances the thought would have been absurd, laughable even. But now... now Will can see it. He can see the possible _need_ for it too. Hannibal had been obvious enough - reckless enough - for Mason to find them in Florence. And without Chiyoh they wouldn't be alive now. Just how controlled is this new Hannibal?

(The realization is uncomfortable. Glaring. Had he ever _thanked_ her? Her steady aim, that trigger finger that ensured their get away... Her ability to gather food and supplies and take care of Hannibal... He owes her and yet at times he wishes Hannibal would send her away. He’s the child that doesn’t like sharing.)

It doesn't enter Will's mind that he's essentially giving Hannibal a reward for good behavior. (And this is why Will Graham can be dangerous. He's not always thinking of how his actions can be laced with certain intentions.)

The scrape of nails across his scalp elicits a shiver and Will closes his eyes, pushing his cheek more firmly against Hannibal's thigh. He wants more and yet he's content to be given little -- at least when it comes to physical manifestations of Hannibal's affections. Little means things can be kept contained, right? Held in check. He just needs a little...

"You let me destroy your way of being, Hannibal," Will replies softly, the admission is almost melodic. "You had a good life in Baltimore. And then you got yourself tangled up in me." He's not going to answer the _other_ question. He's proved that he's not especially safe for anyone, let alone himself. Will pushes his head up into Hannibal's fingers, encouraging... just a little.

* * *

The words are so dulcet that Hannibal almost overlooks them. His only saving grace is that they are words that Will has said, so his attention drifts away from his own thoughts and instead refocuses on Will Graham. Hannibal looks down at him, his wine forgotten, his interest visibly mild. Yet the way he immediately attempts to drink in everything about Will very likely gives him away. Hannibal can be calm and rational, can temper the madness for a time. Even so, his ability to manage Will hinges on Will not slipping his lead or whirling around to bite at Hannibal's ankles.

He's not certain if he can consider this improperly-timed truth a bite, but it does ring true. The knowledge burns like one of Will's favored shots of whiskey and Hannibal frowns slightly in response. Next to him, Will eases closer. He bumps his hand up against Hannibal's hand like an encouraging canine, or... no. A cat. In this instance, anyway. It's less demanding and more enticing, a promissory action. Hannibal is intrigued despite himself.

"Ah, but you are operating under the assumption that my life in Baltimore was what was best for me. It was amusing, perhaps enriching, but hardly sustainable," Hannibal muses. He eyes his fingers in Will's hair and then he curls them just enough to give the slightest of tugs. Hannibal is gentle as he pulls, holds it just for a moment, and then relaxes his hold. He slides his fingers down through Will's hair until his nails scratch against the back of Will's nape, soft, soothing.

"It was a beautifully made up fish tank of my own choosing, but fish outgrow their tanks, and my appetite has never been suited to domesticity. Perhaps tangling myself up in you, in your net, is precisely what I needed. You baited your line and readied your net; you are a skilled fisherman, Will. You merely underestimated the size and ferocity of your catch and sent us both plummeting into open water. Luckily your taste doesn't tempt me."

* * *

The tug is delightful, a hint of a strain, but not nearing actual _pain_. Will wants to think of himself as being able to take it anyway, that he's strong enough to bear any pain Hannibal could bring. He's resilient... (But hadn't Chiyoh accurately called out his malleability? When he gave flight to his own firefly, was the tableau _his_ or Hannibal's creation?) Nails scratch down the back of his head and neck. Will sighs, a content sound following. He thinks of the image Hannibal illustrates. A beautiful fish tank, Hannibal's own controlled ecosystem. Hannibal, who chose who swam by, who was to grow and thrive and whose time got cut short...

_'Luckily your taste doesn't tempt me.'_

"But doesn't it?" Will shoots back, a hint of a challenge in his voice. His eyes open. He can vividly recall the table setting laid out before him, his damn shoulder throbbing while the haze of drugs permeated his senses. He can remember the taste of the "soup" fed to him to enhance his flavors. Hadn't Hannibal even blown on the contents held in the spoon to cool it? Because heaven forbid Will burn his tongue... Jack sitting across from him. Jack looking horrified, but Hannibal looking calm and Will thinks he'd looked resigned. Blood spraying, dripping down his face, Hannibal opening him up again...

 

"It did," Will corrects. He straightens, rising up on his knees exactly like he had in the living room. He regards Hannibal for a moment before his hand reaches out to the wine glass. He grabs onto the stem, lifting it off the coaster and then sliding it closer to him. Will dips his middle finger into the wine, he watches the red liquid coat past his knuckle before pulling it out. It hovers above the glass a moment being careful as he knows Hannibal wouldn't appreciate being dripped on, after all.

Will lifts his hand to Hannibal's mouth, the tip of his wet finger sliding along Hannibal's bottom lip. This feels almost like he's going too far, the actions too bold, but he's able to stop himself.

"For that idea to take hold of your mind, something must have happened after you left me in Palermo," Will says slowly, almost tentatively. He's unsure if him inviting such a topic will go over well.

* * *

Perhaps in a sense, Hannibal has invited this topic. The use of the word 'taste' had been somewhat tongue-in-cheek and he's not surprised that Will immediately shoots back what he does. Of everyone, Will Graham likely has the most right to imply such a thing but it doesn't make it any easier for Hannibal to consider. Instead he hesitates. It's just a fraction of a response, a small glance in Will's direction, but the pause is pregnant in the lack of Hannibal's immediate response. It must register in some way, for Will corrects himself a second later. The damage has already been done, however, as Hannibal cannot deny Will's point. His taste _had_ tempted him once.

The correction only soothes him a little. Will rises up then, shifting up onto his knees, and while Hannibal does still (he remembers the last time Will had done this) he still allows Will his actions. He watches in a slightly more humbled silence as Will reaches out to the wine glass. For a moment Hannibal considers protesting; Will shouldn't drink. But it seems that _Will_ has no intention of it. Hannibal instead is left looking at him as Will dips a finger into the glass (childish or rude, Hannibal can't decide) but his mild irritation abates when Will turns to _him_.

The press of Will's finger against his lower lip is nothing shy of erotic. If Will intends it differently, Hannibal cannot properly decide _what_ Will is trying to tell him. He thinks back to the single kiss they've shared, the barest brush of lips that Hannibal had wished to draw out longer. He thinks of Will's desire to share his bed and the lack of follow-up, and for a moment, he's surprised by just how much he does want this man. So he breathes slowly, holds it, and then lets it out just as slowly. The last thing that Hannibal wishes is to push too quickly. He doesn't wish to scare Will away.

But it appears that Will has no such concerns. Hannibal stills and his expression shutters slightly despite the press of Will's finger. He can taste the hint of wine but it seems almost sour following Will's question regarding his actions following Palermo. Honestly there have been many times that Hannibal has wondered the same. For a moment he considers simply ignoring Will or changing the subject. This is not something he _wishes_ to drag to light. But as he sits there, stiff, clearly displeased, he can't help but remember Will's soft admission. He remembers Will's fear and Hannibal knows logically that his actions following Palermo likely play a large part. He tightens his jaw, but in the end, he cannot fault Will's curiosity.

Hannibal reaches up and wraps his hand around Will's wrist, carefully drawing his hand away. He bends just for a moment, almost tentative, and presses a kiss to Will's palm. Then he wets his lips, chasing the taste of Will's skin and the wine as he considers.

"Forgiveness is complex. It is not as simple as stating intent. I heard your forgiveness and forgot myself. You have always been a glaring weakness, Will. I allowed your presence to compromise me."

He glances down at Will for a moment, almost contemplative, and then he looks over to the glass of wine. His emotions regarding the catacombs are still raw.

"I never had any desire to make Bedelia my companion. It was always supposed to be you. In that moment, perhaps, I let myself be fanciful. I let myself hope. Then watching you debase yourself, I had to wonder if I'd broken you permanently. I wondered if this was also a trick. You have... a way of inspiring hope. Bedelia and I spoke of forgiveness often after that. I was... admittedly more reckless in my disappointment."

* * *

It's apparently not too far. Hannibal doesn't stop him and Hannibal doesn't scold him. A part of Will feels emboldened that he's been allowed to do such a thing, but since coming here when has Hannibal really stopped him? Wine is hardly a knife. This is a tease compared to the threat of violence. Hannibal's bottom lip glistens with the remnants of the wine. Will is tempted to breach the space between them and sample the flavor (sample Hannibal), but he knows words are needed instead of actions.

He's not taken many new steps toward Hannibal. He hasn't slept in Hannibal's bed. There have been a few nights where Will has laid on his side, his eyes open and staring at the door while having the distinct feeling of being chained to his own bed. It shouldn’t be so difficult to get up and go and yet… They exist in each other's orbit, possibly drifting closer, but it's Will who will be pulling or pushing, at least in his actions. (This realization... This realization that it's _him_ who has this power over them is a humbling and worrisome prospect.)

His fear and uncertainty give him such a power because Hannibal has been put into a difficult place. Hannibal doesn’t want to scare him away. The predator and the once-prey. Time heals such an affliction, but words possibly help.

Of course Hannibal doesn't look particularly pleased by bringing up this subject matter, but Will's fairly certain Hannibal will go along with it. (Will's not entirely pleased by having to relive it either.) His fingertip is still wet, the air bringing attention to it, but Will remains still and lets Hannibal move his hand away as a kiss is pressed to his palm. (He's felt those lips, just the barest of brushes, a fleeting thing that felt like too much and not enough at the same time.)

"Did she say something to you? Suggest something?" Will then asks, curious. Bedelia DuMaurier is a cunning snake and Will suspects that she could have possibly introduced the idea.

* * *

Hannibal isn't expecting the question. Pressed as close as he is to Will's hand, he hardly has time to think of Bedelia DuMaurier. She's a cunning woman and Hannibal respects her tenacity, but hearing Will openly question her says a lot. Hannibal pauses. Then, slowly, he leans away from Will's hand and sends Will a small frown. There's nothing defensive in his eyes; he has no loyalty to Bedelia even now. She had not been his first choice and she knew it. Still, regardless of how gently Will asks his question, the implication is still clear. Will is asking him if he let himself be _compromised_. Influenced. _Manipulated_ by Bedelia, and while she's a smart woman, Hannibal almost wishes to laugh the notion off.

There's a note of amusement in his eyes as he looks at Will, and while he doesn't smile, the hint of it is clear. "Bedelia is a ruthlessly cunning woman, but not even she has that much influence over me, Will," Hannibal says, and while he manages to remain polite, the amusement doesn't vanish. "She didn't say anything--..."

Or... that's how his comment begins. But just like that, like a predator laying in wait, like a trap suddenly snapping shut, Hannibal feels the memory slam him. ' _How did your sister taste?'_

Hannibal stills.

He can remember his desire to slaughter Bedelia in that moment. He remembers the way she'd sunk into the bath, hair swirling around her face like drowning sunlight, and for a long, uncomfortable moment, Hannibal had been tempted to reach into the bathtub and keep her there. He recalls speaking of spring lambs. But more than anything, he recalls Bedelia mentioning his sister.

_'What your sister made you feel was beyond your conscious ability to control or predict... I would suggest what Will Graham makes you feel is not dissimilar.'_

The conversation rings in his mind with crystal clarity. From where he sits in the dining room with Will on his knees, Hannibal's frown grows in severity as pieces begin to slide together.

_'Mischa didn't betray me. She would influence me to betray myself... But I forgave her that influence.'_

Hannibal's shoulders drop slightly. He can still remember Bedelia's lead-in, and the realization sits like stone in his chest.

_'If past behavior is an indicator of future behavior, there is only one way for you to forgive Will Graham.'_

He'd been so sure. Up until this moment, he'd been _so sure_ the idea had been his own. The concept of forgiveness is not one that Hannibal courts easily and that his actions had led him to that decision had been unfortunate, but they hadn't registered as out of the ordinary. Yet regret is not an emotion that Hannibal often feels, and he'd felt it _severely_ following Florence. He'd knelt in Mason's pig pen for hours, naked, skin burning and smelling mildly of cooked meat, and he'd let his head hang as one question had repeated in his mind: _Why?_ Even once he'd carried Will back, after he'd seen to his wounds, he'd still been asking _why_. Why would he attempt to kill Will Graham? His best guess had been his own impulsiveness, or a desire to remove himself from temptation. He'd assumed the problem had to be his own, because no other could possibly influence him.

But hasn't Will influenced him? Hasn't every moment since they'd met been a sparring match of influence? If one man can slip under his skin, who's to say another can't? That another didn't? And as Hannibal sits there, his lips parted in sudden understanding, the set of his shoulders low, and his expression briefly open in a mix of stunned shock and growing rage, all he can do is look down at Will and watch him.

Bedelia had almost killed Will Graham by using him as a proxy. He swallows slowly. "I believe... if ever we leave American soil, I have an errand to attend to first."

* * *

When Jack and he had found Bedelia alone and apparently drugged out of her mind, Will had known that she had begun to orchestrate her own escape. She'd planned on slithering away, painting herself as a poor victim of circumstance. Vials of medicine. Treating her so called “condition.” Bedelia sprawled out, with her plunging neckline on her dress and huge rock on ring finger speaking of her husband...

_'You somehow expect us to believe you lost yourself in the hot darkness of Hannibal Lecter's mind?'_

He hadn't believed it then, but he's certain she's wiggled away. Probably smug and confident that she'd be kept safe now that Hannibal Lecter is back on the loose. She'd share just enough to keep her own skin safe. Wretched woman... So, Will asks the question, he tries to understand, to _see_ because the numbers hadn't really added up to him. Hannibal could have easily killed him in Palermo and he'd opted to not. Will may have pulled the knife, but a blade shouldn't have been his death sentence (it hadn't been before). What had changed? Had something been planted by Bedelia? A little seed nestled into the fertile soil of Hannibal's mind, her words coaxing it to sprout and bloom. Her hand working to encourage Hannibal's own to slip the noose around Will's neck?

(A hot anger is in the pit of his stomach, but Will lets it sit there and boil.)

He observes Hannibal's initial reaction of amusement and incredulousness. Will also doesn't want to think of Hannibal as being influenced or manipulated (there's that ideal again, that imago) but Hannibal is human. While Hannibal begins to refute the claim, something slides into place and he stops. Hannibal's lips are pulled further down, a prominent frown as he searches through the memories.

Will watches the stunned realization come to fruition on Hannibal. Shoulders low, there's flickers of rage and shock on Hannibal's face, minor twitches, but Will can see them. Hannibal's response tells him all he needs to know. Will won't ask for the specifics (although he's curious, maybe another time).

"She'll likely be under witness protection," Will says. It's not what he wants to say. He _wants_ to tell Hannibal that he approves of such an action because he wants the witch to burn, for them to watch the flames engulf her. "It won't be smart for us to stay here too much longer, or for you to go after her."

He leans forward (perhaps he's giving Hannibal another treat) and he kisses the corner of Hannibal's mouth. Will barely pulls away, his voice hushed when he admits, "But I want you to kill her." He's never been into self-preservation, right? His eyes are wide and his heart is pounding in his chest thinking about it. It's a powerful feeling to have sway over another, to be worthy of revenge.

* * *

It takes an overwhelming effort to remain exactly where he is and even more to keep his expression as neutral as he does. Yet behind the mild frown and the burning rage behind his eyes is a veritable firestorm of anger. It's by only the thinnest of margins that Hannibal stays seated for now as his mind is filled with the need to immediately track down Bedelia DuMaurier and slaughter her like a pig. All he'd needed had been this shifted perspective to see and the knowledge that not only had she almost killed Will, but that he'd allowed himself to be so easily manipulated sets a fire under his skin.

He stays seated only because Will is there. Under the table, one of Hannibal's hands clenches so tightly into his slacks that they threaten to rip at the seams. Even badly injured he is still a formidable man and the tension thrumming through him is almost electric. There's a storm behind his eyes, and there is only one lightning rod he has his focus on at this point. Right now, regardless of Bedelia's supposed witness protection, he has no doubt that he could track her down. Unlike her, he has many friends in many places and many favors owed. He doubts even the FBI will be able to withstand his anger if they decide to get in the way. He'd slaughtered an entire house full of guards in order to get to Will. This will simply be retroactive.

His jaw is tight enough that his lips begin to pale from the force he presses them together. Will is correct. Bedelia will be under witness protection, and it would be ill-advised to go after her. Their time should be spent recovering. Yet permitting the rudest act to _live_ while he's killed so many others... that is not something Hannibal wishes to allow. He isn't even certain whether or not he will eat her. By sparing her, it could be a sign of respect, or simply that there is some meat even too rancid for him to dare touching lest he infect himself. He's in his own mind, his thoughts spiraling, body so tense that his back is throbbing. So Hannibal is not expecting the way Will suddenly leans in.

The kiss is chaste, no more than a sudden press to the corner of his lips, but it shocks him back to himself. Hannibal gives a small start, blinking a few times as he's roughly dragged back to the present moment. He looks down at Will, at his proximity, and he feels the warmth of Will's hand on his thigh. He registers his expression, and when Will speaks, his voice low, Hannibal doesn't miss the tone of his voice.

The words are contradictory. One moment Will is warning him of the dangers, and the next he's asking Hannibal to kill. The surge of reckless desire and rage crest within him like the pressure behind a bullet the microsecond before it leaves the chamber. Hannibal draws in a would-be-slow breath but the sound is almost hitched in the relative silence between them. He looks at Will and - just for a moment - he lets the sheer scope of the rage in his eyes show.

But instead of lashing out, Hannibal lifts his hand. It shakes minutely as he touches Will's cheek, but for a man as steady-of-hand as Hannibal is, the difference is immediately apparent. Hannibal looks at him quietly, stroking his thumb over Will's lower lip once. Then he drops his hand and carefully eases Will back as he stands up. But instead of denying Will, his actions are clearly intended to work off his own anger. Hannibal does something he has rarely allowed himself to do: he paces.

"She can't hide from me," Hannibal says softly. The softer his voice, the more dangerous. "Witness protection won't protect her. I am a reasonable man, Will. I can forgive a great deal. An attempt to end _your_ life, however?" He looks back at Will, at the way he's kneeling on his cushion, and Hannibal aches for so much that he can't put a name to it. "That I cannot forgive."

* * *

Will wonders what bothers Hannibal more: that Bedelia had sought to have him meet his demise, or that she had managed to manipulate Hannibal to begin with. Suggestion had always been Hannibal's game, he was the ultimate ringmaster. But had he learned it from her or had it been vice versa? Will can't even imagine what _their_ so called therapy sessions would have been like. Pretentious psychobabble. Questions posed back and forth, metaphors, flair and pomp... Worse than Chiyoh. Far worse than Chiyoh, actually.

There's real anger in Hannibal's eyes. Has Will ever seen this before? He's seen Hannibal disappointed. He's seen Hannibal hurt. Determined. Intrigued. Contemplative. Irritated. Wary... But angry? _Vengeful_? Perhaps this is the look he had worn on his face while slaughtering Mason's men to get to him. (Certainly not all those men had been evil or vile like Mason, certainly Will should still feel bothered because he knows Hannibal would dispatch FBI agent after FBI agent to get to her.)

And maybe it's petulance that smooths out any uneasiness about the potential bloodbath. Will doesn't _want_ FBI agents to die, but fuck, he wants Bedelia to _pay_ in some way _._ Popping back to help Jack, but sneaking off with Hannibal Lecter in the end, playing his little wife, doing who knows what else with him. A nice European vacation for the two shrinks.

Will's brief kiss doesn't give them a happy ending. Will observes Hannibal come back to himself -- at least a little. He's given a shaky touch but then Hannibal is sliding his chair back and standing up. Will's a bit at a loss of what to do or where this is going. Has he opened a can of worms here?

Hannibal is pacing. Hannibal is speaking, his words so soft, that Will has to strain to make them out. But there's a real threat there. Will frowns, momentarily stunned at the sight, but then he's carefully rising from his knees and stepping in front of Hannibal, forcing him to stop.

"Is it really her _intention_ that you're struggling with... Or is it the fact that she was able to get under your skin?" Will places his left hand on Hannibal's chest, his fingers curling in between the buttons and gripping at the fabric of the shirt. He looks up at Hannibal. Maybe he doesn't want to know the answer because as Will backs up, he doesn't go of Hannibal and Hannibal is forced to follow. The wall is only a few feet behind him and Will backs himself against it. Hannibal's not quite pinning him, but Will's intention is blatant as he yanks Hannibal, prompting him to come closer.

"Tell me how you would do it," Will says, his eyes bright. Here, in this house, he can whisper and tease the darkness. He doesn't need to behave, to hide, and Hannibal doesn't need to either.

* * *

Hannibal's thoughts are a cacophony of white noise, dozens of different wants and desires and impulses competing with one another as he looks back at Will. He registers his shock, can see the brief uncertainty behind Will's eyes, but it's to be expected. Will has never seen Hannibal react like this before. Hannibal has never allowed himself to react like this. He's courted anger and disappointment in Will's presence before, but anger - _rage_ \- is not something he often allows himself. In his youth, perhaps, but he is no longer the impulsive creature of his past. Or... he hadn't been, before Will Graham. Hannibal can remember the ice pick, the sputtering fool, and how satisfied he'd felt after. Perhaps he is more impulsive than he thinks.

Which is, of course, when he realizes _why_ Bedelia had been able to slip into his mind so easily. Not only had she sought to turn him against Will, but she had done so using his own weakness against him. Hannibal paces, quick and sharp, and he's distantly aware of Will rising to his feet but he doesn't truly register it. So when Will is suddenly there in front of him, Hannibal forces himself to stop instead of risking a sudden run-in with Will. His lips are thin, his posture tight, but he still stops in front of Will and forces himself to listen. Unfortunately for them both, Will's words are just cutting enough that Hannibal honestly considers merely shoving him away.

Then Will lifts a hand and presses it to his chest. His fingers curl in his shirt; Hannibal can feel one brush against the bare skin of his chest underneath, and he looks at Will in a sudden tense silence. They look at one another for a few beats of his heart, and then Will is suddenly pulling at his shirt as he steps back. The intention is clear. The fabric of Hannibal's shirt presses harder to his back and the pain is sudden, but it's also mildly grounding. He follows, and when Will's back hits the wall on the far side of the room, Hannibal stops a respectable distance away.

Or he tries to. Will doesn't seem inclined to allow him to and instead yanks at his shirt hard enough that Hannibal's hands have to shoot out and brace himself against the wall on either side of Will's head.

The position is enticing. Will's eyes are intense, and Hannibal feels a stirring of something darker and selfish rise within him, but it still battles with the knowledge of what Bedelia has done. Will looks at him, his eyes bright with something insidiously excited and Hannibal forces himself to draw a slow breath. It fails; he's finding it difficult to remain calm.

"That would depend on whether or not she's worth enough to eat," he says, and his voice is harder, colder, and still dangerously quiet. "Snapping her neck and disposing of her in the closest river so that she's found bloated and filled with blowflies appeals. But in the event she was to be eaten, I would do to her what I did to Abel Gideon, save without the benefit of painkillers. Slowly dissect her, piece by piece, force her to partake of her own flesh, keep her alive until all worthwhile meat had been taken, and then decide how much pain one body could withstand before death..."

* * *

He's caged himself with Hannibal. It's an impulsive, recklessness thing to do (but par for the course). Will knows there's still a thread of fear running from him to Hannibal, a sense of apprehension that remains. He knows what Hannibal is capable of. But now, now he at least has an answer for Hannibal's attempt to open him his head up.

An answer doesn't dissolve the traumatic experience, but it at least it puts it in a different light. Or something like that.

But now Will is caught up in the idea and feeling of Hannibal tracking Bedelia DuMaurier down and slaughtering her. For him. Well, maybe not for him entirely, but _because_ of him. (He needs to make a new memory to replace Abigail's demise, for Will blames himself for being the inciting incident. Because if he hadn't... If he had only...)

As Hannibal begins to speak, the hand not grasping Hannibal's shirt slips between them. Will swallows, his eyes fluttering at the image of a bloated Bedelia floating down a river. He can see it so perfectly in his mind, her golden hair like weeds around her face, glassy eyes, her neck obviously dislocated. Discarded like trash, polluting nature like she had polluted Hannibal's thoughts. Will's hand presses against his growing arousal. His hips stutter forward, apparently very interested in this direction. Will's never masturbated in front of someone. That this someone is _Hannibal Lecter_ only elevates this unfolding scenario. This isn't someone he's picked up, both of them a little drunk and with the plan of getting more drunk before clothes came off. Hannibal is angry and yet he's obviously interested in this.

 _Interested in me_ \-- Will amends. Maybe this is going too far. Maybe this is what he'll be reprimanded for.

He's experienced a taste of another's sexual sadism, a killer's thoughts bleeding into his own, but this is entirely something different. Maybe he just likes imagining the lengths Hannibal would go for him. Maybe he likes the cracks in the mask, Hannibal’s rage a radiant thing to behold.

"Hannibal," Will begins, his voice quiet, slightly breathless. His hand rubs at his clothed dick and right now Will doesn't care how shameless he's being. "What would you all do for me?"

This isn't a question he should ask and yet the words slip out like a confession. Hannibal is close and so alive in his anger. Will wants more of it.

* * *

There is real rage thrumming through Hannibal's chest as he looks at Will, and it only grows when he glances up enough to see a hint of the scabbing injury on his forehead. He'd almost killed Will Graham on the whim of a woman concerned with her own survival. He cannot fault Bedelia her desire to remain unscathed, and now that Hannibal has been alerted to the issue, he can understand it. She'd chosen to accompany him but she'd seen behind the curtain. She'd looked at the beast and had struggled to maintain herself. He'd been going to kill her. In her mind, it had likely been self-preservation. Kill the one Hannibal cares for the most and he'd fall back on the one he cared for second: her. Even as he considers it, something inside twists in rage. Bedelia DuMaurier has nothing on Will Graham, and Hannibal will see her _burn_.

His thoughts are fire, a curling immolation, and as he stands there with his body almost pressed to Will's, he looks at this man who fears and desires him (though fear still wins out even more) and Hannibal's ire flares hotter. Had it not been for Bedelia, would Will fear him as much? Will is not unreasonable. Hannibal had cut him and had taken Abigail away, but Will had brought it upon himself. The bone saw, the table with Jack... that hadn't been justified and now Hannibal knows why.

Hannibal's pulse is quick and angry, thrumming like veritable war drums in his body. A call to arms; Hannibal is going to make Bedelia pay. Yet as the thought crosses his mind, he's caught by surprise as Will suddenly reaches between them. Hannibal's gaze follows his hand immediately, the movement blatant, but he's not entirely prepared for what he sees. Just like that, immediately, Hannibal stills against Will as he watches Will reach a hand down to touch himself.

Hannibal freezes. He blinks. Then he looks at Will. Yet all it takes is one look at the growing flush to his cheeks and the brightness to his eyes for Hannibal to realize that this isn't a mistake. He breathes in slowly, and despite the haze of wine on his tongue, he can smell something hotter, a musky heat, and it's only then that Hannibal truly understands. Will is aroused. He doesn't frown but his confusion is evident as he watches Will's hips thrust into his hand. It's thrilling and arousing, but the sight of it is also frustrating. Hannibal isn't in the right mindset to truly enjoy Will like this, and it's one more crime against Bedelia's name. Hannibal does drink in the sight of Will like this, though, close enough that he can breathe in the tail-ends of each of Will's breathless exhales. Sharing air... it isn't a meeting of lips, but it's still intimate. Hannibal stands there, his muscles tense, his expression still drawn, and there's a mix of rage and true hunger in his eyes.

He doesn't act on it. He stays where he is. He could call this off in a moment, draw back and reprimand Will for being so impertinent, but he doesn't. Instead he looks at Will and he believes he understands. It isn't Bedelia's death that Will finds pleasure in (though Hannibal supposes he _does_ find satisfaction in it). It's the lengths that Hannibal is willing to go to for him. He stares Will down, close enough to feel the heat from his skin, and then he looks down between them again, staring at the line of arousal he can make out under Will's hand.

He should put a stop to this. It would be the intelligent thing to do. But he doesn't. Instead Hannibal curls his hands into fists against the wall and then slowly eases closer. He rests his forearms against the wall, caging Will in, and looks down at him, watching him without shame. Will Graham is _his_.

"I believe the proper question should be: what _wouldn't_ I do for you?" He replies, voice quiet with a small twist of heat. "You already know I'd kill for you. I have in the recent past. But I would do it again in a heartbeat. Anyone who attempts you harm." Hannibal leans in. They don't touch, but the threat is there. "Anyone who keeps you from me... I'd kill them, and I would take great pleasure in it. Just as I feel you take pleasure in the thought. Do you enjoy being the only person, living or dead, who can muzzle me, Will? Or perhaps... you enjoy the knowledge that you alone have the power to rip the muzzle off. Knowing I would kill anyone who hurt you."

* * *

He's the lure that's caught Hannibal's attention. He's the thief that's stolen Hannibal's heart. It hadn't been Will's intention, and yet as he feels Hannibal's eyes track his movements, he's glad that he's achieved such a thing. Should it feel like an accomplishment? It's sometimes honestly felt like a curse. But not now. Now, Will longs for Hannibal's gaze, for the caress of his slightly accented words, and the occasional steadying, reassuring touches. They're gifts, Hannibal feeding him one grape at a time while he's on his knees, desperate for a sip of wine.

But is it Hannibal who withholds, or Will who chooses not to partake? Despite his desire, Will hasn't sought him out. Will sleeps alone when he could get up and walk to Hannibal's room.

But Hannibal is close now. Will's pulled him here. Will's maneuvered himself in between the wall and Hannibal. He can feel Hannibal's warmth, his even exhales. He can see Hannibal's interest warring with his rage. Every second that Hannibal allows this is a second that Will is indulged. It's more than gratifying. Then Hannibal speaks, rephrasing Will's question.

It _is_ a better question... What _wouldn't_ Hannibal do for him? And Will feels a slight thrumming of awed fear underneath his arousal. Hannibal confidently states that he would kill for him again -- in a heartbeat. Will arcs off the back of the wall slightly, his head falling back to rest on the wall, elongating his throat. The bruises have faded from his botched choking foray. He wonders if Hannibal will ever give him new ones. Maybe if he asks?

' _Anyone who keeps you from me... I'd kill them, and I would take great pleasure in it. Just as I feel you take pleasure in the thought.'_ Will's panting, pleasure etched into his expression. His eyes close, needing a small respite from Hannibal's intensity... And he does believe Hannibal would fight for him. Kill for him. Hannibal thinks him worthy. Important enough. No one has ever made that claim. Christ, he's so hard. He's not even directly touching his cock and he feels stupidly close to getting off.

Hannibal continues, his voice feels like curling smoke that can't be ignored. Will's eyes snap open and the thought of _him_ having such an ability - the power to rip off the muzzle - has Will groaning and his hand squeezing his dick appreciatively. "Fuck, Hannibal..." Will His other hand clutches at Hannibal's shirt. His fingers are in between the buttons, his nails digging into Hannibal's skin.

This is the single most erotic moment Will's ever experienced. He's fully clothed, not being touched and effectively rubbing himself through pants like a desperate teenager. He doesn't care.

"I do like it" Will murmurs and it feels like he's unburdening a sin. "I shouldn't, but I do." It's freeing to know Hannibal won't judge him for it. Will's hand begins stroking faster. "Do you want me to get off?" He doesn't know where the question comes from, but it's out of his mouth.

* * *

Hannibal doesn't delude himself into thinking that this moment is anything but what it is. Will has looked upon him, has seen true rage etched into his expression, and the mixture of awe and fear and the _power_ of Hannibal's dedication to him are enough to send pleasure coursing through Will's body. Hannibal can see it in the flush to Will's cheeks. He can feel it in the heat radiating from his body. He can hear it in each breathless sound, and he can almost taste it on the air. Yet despite this, Hannibal doesn't touch him. He doesn't dare. That Will is even in this state is likely going too far. He'll regret that Hannibal has seen him later, but at this moment, Hannibal doesn't feel as contained as he should. He feels reckless, angry, and every time Will's fingers curl and every time his nails rake along Hannibal's chest, Hannibal's breath threatens to catch.

He feels privileged to see Will in this state, with his hand between them, blatantly touching himself. The scent of arousal is thick on the air and it's as thrilling as it is maddening. Hannibal can't touch. He can only observe. But like this, with Will's mind swirling around his own darkness and taking pleasure from the surge of power he hadn't known he'd been in charge of, Hannibal doesn't _have_ to touch him. So instead he lets the anger pulse hot and thick through his veins. He lets himself take in the sight of Will's expression. He files away the way he wets his lips, the darker brush of his eyelashes as they skim across his cheeks, the deep flush that rises to Will's cheeks when he allows himself to bask in the danger that is Hannibal Lecter's devotion.

Will curses. He sounds desperate and Hannibal can sympathize. He looks at Will, present in the moment, _alive,_ and he knows Bedelia will die because she dared to touch this man through him. Hannibal observes Will's pleasure, breathing it in, looking at the long line of his throat he wishes to litter with bruises, the flush to his lips Hannibal wishes to bite red, the quick rise and fall of his chest that Hannibal wishes to taste, and lower. Will groans. Will's hand squeezes himself, and when Will finally admits that Hannibal is right, Hannibal feels a twisting satisfaction burn hot in his chest. It wars with his anger but he hardly cares. Will is worth far more than his anger.

So Hannibal watches as Will's hand speeds up. He breathes in the scent on the air and watches Will, locking away every expression. He's never been permitted this before and in a way he resents that it has taken _this_ to allow him to see Will in pleasure. Yet when Will asks his question, blatant, bordering on desperate, there isn't a single part of Hannibal that wishes to stop him.

"Yes," he says, low, his voice still tight with anger. "I want to watch you, exactly as you are. Against the wall, caged, basking in the realization of what I would do for you, Will. When I kill her, it will be for you."

* * *

In this house that isn't a home for any of them, on a bluff eroding from a tempestuous ocean, Will gives into this moment of debauchery. Will's entire focus is _Hannibal_. Hannibal's _proximity_. Hannibal's _attention_. The threat of Hannibal's _wrath_. He feels incapable of stopping this, of doing anything but letting himself be pinned - caged - by Hannibal (not antlers, flesh and blood -- _human_ ). Will's hand moves on its own accord, shameless and bold. Will hears his own quickened breaths. His chest expands. He can't see past Hannibal -- he doesn't want to. Why would he ever want to? He's chosen this.

Chiyoh may have been effectively sent away - sent to her room - but there is no guarantee she will remain there. Will should care about possibly being heard, but he knows he won't hold himself back. Not in this, and not now. This is an indulgence, of reaching out to the darkness, and Hannibal reaching back. (Arms outstretched in the shadows, they search and find each other, their fingers finally brushing.)

Will's playing with a life here, but Hannibal isn't. Will knows better, he _knows_ better, but he doesn't care right now. Actions have consequences, why should Bedelia DuMaurier be spared from this?

She shouldn't be. Will's paid Hannibal's price now she can too. He's chosen Hannibal, altered his course and he will sail into this storm.

Their red thread is now a weapon, an instrument of destruction if anyone is to come between them. It's also a means to exact retribution against a cunning woman. This intimacy is coated in a fantasy of violence, a very real threat (a promise) to Bedelia. (He's not hurting, he's not the one that will hurt, so he'll take it.)

_'When I kill her, it will be for you.'_

"For me..." Will echoes. He rubs harder. He shakes. His orgasms is impending. He can't believe he's doing this, and yet Will tilts his head, nuzzling at Hannibal's hand with his forehead, his cheek, anything because he needs just a little more.

Caged. Basking. Hannibal, Hannibal, Hannibal. His senses are full of this man. Will's past and future dominated by him. A bloated Bedelia floating in the river flashes in Will's mind. It's with the thought of Hannibal telling her that he knew what she'd done that Will finally comes to. He's gasping Hannibal's name, his eyes shut tightly as he pulses hot in his boxers. He'll likely regret this later, but later is later and now is now and now pleasure shoots through him and Hannibal is here, watching him, wanting this.

* * *

Hannibal doesn't touch Will in this moment of stolen intimacy, but he doesn't have to. Will can already feel him. Maybe he doesn't reach out, maybe neither of them make physical contact, but Hannibal can feel Will's burning heat, and he can feel the rush of each of Will's panted breaths against his skin. He can scent his desperation, and each soft sound that Will makes is like a physical caress. In return, Hannibal's presence is all-encompassing. He braces himself against the wall, caging this reckless man between his arms, looming over him and watching, drinking in every moment of Will's desperation. Hannibal may not touch him, but he knows that Will can feel his influence. He can feel the darkness, the thickness in the air, the near-electric tension in the air that points to Hannibal's rage.

Bedelia DuMaurier will die. Perhaps it will take time. Perhaps she must be put on a mental list with Alana Bloom, but that gives her no immunity. Hannibal will find her. He will bask in her fear and let her manipulations and pleading fuel his rage further. And perhaps in that final moment, if he were not involved before, he will let Will be witness to it. Will wishes to cage him, to collar him, to force his hand away from the innocent, after all. Hannibal doesn't know if Will still wants it all or he wishes only to hold the leash. Yet the thought of Will's wild eyes, of his answering darkness, of his hand clasped under Hannibal's against the knife as Bedelia's life is whisked away like smoke is enough to sharpen this moment.

Hannibal doesn't touch. Will is the one to finally create that connection, and Hannibal is drawn back from his own thoughts in a sudden rush. He feels heat and the dampness of sweat against his hand, the scratch of stubble as Will nuzzles against him desperately. It's a small point of contact but Hannibal revels in it. He touches only as much as Will sanctions, and Hannibal silently basks in the sight of Will's desperation. He sees the speed that Will's hand moves in, hears every ragged, desperate gasp, and Hannibal basks in the minute shakes and the way Will trembles against the wall, desperate for his own pleasure.

"For you," Hannibal repeats, and his voice is low, and so sharp it may as well be edged like a blade. " _With_ you."

He doesn't know if that's what does it, or if Will has lost himself in his own mind, but it seems to be all that is required. Hannibal watches with a heavy, thick exhale as Will's eyes shut tight, his hips jerk and twitch desperately, and he comes with a beautiful gasp of Hannibal's name. It cleaves through Hannibal like a scythe, hitching his own breath, making him ache, making him _want_ past the rage still pounding thick and hot in his veins. Will is stunning in his pleasure, looking desperate and pained, and it's by the thinnest shred of control that Hannibal merely keeps his hand there instead of closing the distance between them to kiss Will as he wishes to.

As he has during this whole encounter, he stays where he is, and he already knows he will recreate this moment on paper. He has pages of sketches of this man, and he never wants to forget this expression. A beautiful agony. Hannibal draws in a slow, careful breath and then lets it out. His hand finally shifts then, barely an inch, just enough for him to delicately press his thumb just under the wound on Will's forehead.

"I believe you are owed that much."

* * *

_'For you... **With** you.'_

It's another promise, isn't it? Words written in blood, etched on his bones, staining his very soul. Because Hannibal's touch is everywhere. His influence vast and thorough and exacting. And while Hannibal had entered his mind uninvited, had played around and stirred the pot as it were, Will can't say the same for his heart. (Because, because, he's been alone, that uniqueness setting him aside - apart - and it'd been familiar, safe, but Hannibal has shaken him up, shaken something loose and Hannibal is the only one that can handle him.)

But Hannibal doesn't touch him now. Hannibal refrains. Holds himself back, an act of control from a powerful beast capable of such violence, capable of such tenderness. Will holds the leash (who is he to be able to do such a thing?). It's power, isn't it? Power over another. No, not another, power over _Hannibal._ Hannibal who's played them all masterfully, who's meddled and spun deception like a spider spins a web. Will has power over Hannibal.

Now Will has power over Bedelia too. She may have got to play at Hannibal's wife, but Will _is_ Hannibal's keeper. (' _Keep me and I'll keep you._ ' Right, right.) Perhaps in the past and maybe in the future Will is going to feel tempted to lord this over Hannibal, but right now he's high on simply knowing _and_ feeling it.

And on his orgasm. Wetness begins to soak through his boxers and pajama pants. It's a sticky mess and his hand falls away, his dick too sensitive to touch. He's hot, damp, the sweater sticking to him. Will's nails dig into Hannibal's chest. Bliss and warmth and pleasure course through him. And then Hannibal's hand is closer and reaching out - touching him - a thumb pressing under the healing wound on his forehead.

"Get on your knees," Will says, voice breathless. It's a command. He doesn't know if Hannibal will listen, but he knows he wants to press Hannibal's face into his damp crotch.

* * *

This is the definition of control, of temptation. Only the anger pulsing hot through his veins is enough to offer a chance at further control. Hannibal is affected; this close to Will's pleasure - seeing him, hearing him, nearly able to _taste_ his pleasure - he can't pretend otherwise. He doesn't need to look to know that he'll need to launder his slacks later. He can already feel the slight dampness of his own arousal, the precome seeping into the high-quality wool of his trousers, through his undergarments. That they're herringbone is a blessing, as the dampness doesn't show through as easily as it would were they a simple solid color. Despite what he's just witnessed, Hannibal doesn't wish to scare Will away. He _wants_ , but he's not permitted to have and that is merely the reality of the matter. Like this, so close, he aches, but he doesn't fault Will this.

When it comes down to it, despite his own anger (not at Will) and his own frustration (more at Will), Will is owed this. He is owed power over Hannibal after all that Hannibal has done to him. How many scars does Will bear by his hand or by his influence now? This unexpected exchange is a concession, and in a sense, it's a promise. Words can go far, but actions go beyond even those. He can _tell_ Will that he'll never touch him without permission, that Will can set this pace, can sink into these new waters on his own terms, but _showing_ him that he can resist is different. It doesn't mean Hannibal doesn't look affected. It doesn't mean that there's no hunger in his eyes. It doesn't mean he's not sexually aroused or that he can't taste Will's desire every time he breathes in, but it means he's a man of his word.

Hannibal drinks in every second. His anger hasn't abated. Bedelia will still die. The anger keeps him grounded, adds an edge to this encounter, but he still admires the flush to Will's cheeks, the way his hair falls messily over his forehead, damp and curling at the ends with sweat and humidity. Will is beautiful like this, a work of art to be seen but not touched, and the denial only makes his desire for this man burn brighter. Yet still he stays where he is.

Until Will gives his command. There's no other word for it; this is a _command_. Hannibal blinks once and then leans back a few inches to look at Will properly. While this is not an official scene (he doesn't dare after the last one...) this is also not something that Will has ever expressed an interest in, and Hannibal's hesitation is palpable. He thinks about it, about Will's state of mind, and ultimately he believes he understands. Will knows the power he wields now. He knows what he could do with only a whisper, how much destruction he could bring to the world with a pleading pinch to his brow. It makes sense that he'd like to feel that. To see it. Hannibal decides that the request is acceptable; Will has knelt for him many times. And after all, what _wouldn't_ Hannibal do for him?

Hannibal curls his hands into fists against the wall and then slowly pushes off of it. Mindful of his back, he eases his hands to his sides, sends Will a final searching look, and then he slowly eases himself down. One knee hits the hard floor beneath him, uncomfortable but bearable, and Hannibal gets down onto the other, his posture straight despite the aching throb in his back. He looks up at Will quietly, but the lingering burn of rage and desire is still present. Still, despite everything, he doesn't touch.

"Is this a test, Will? What I would do for you?"

* * *

God, he can't believe the words he's said to Hannibal, the command he's issued. It's a fucking _order_. He can't call it anything other than that. And Will still wants to submit to Hannibal - this evening started with Will on his knees - but he can't help but want to stretch this moment out. To flex his muscles, as it were and pull on the leash. (It's a sacrilegious thought to picture _Hannibal_ with a collar or a muzzle or a leash when Will has picture it in reverse.)

And what a strange dynamic to find themselves in, because Will wants to be submissive to Hannibal, he wants to feel Hannibal's piercing gaze, wants to have Hannibal's hands lead him, his body pin him, his mouth mark him... but he can't pass this up. What if this is his only chance? An opportunity? An opportunity for what exactly? Hopefully not another fucking mistake because Hannibal doesn't trust him around knives already.

But he's given his statement, the words vocalized (the order issued). Hannibal pulls back to consider him. Will may be floundering here, but he feels that he's still tethered to Hannibal. He's not going to drown and he's not going to float away. Hannibal has him. Will doesn't back down, he doesn't take his words back. He's locked onto this course. Will is starting to come down from his orgasm, his breathing and pulse slowing, but body still pleasantly buzzing.

And then Hannibal moves and Will instantly knows that he's going to comply. Will feels a twist of arousal, but he knows he won't be able to get it up again for a while. He has to take a steadying breath as Hannibal lowers himself to his knees. Will's hands fall to his side, fingers twitching in anticipation. "Fuck," Will mutters under his breath as his eyes track down. Hannibal is really doing it. Hannibal is on his knees in front of him. Will is rapt, staring at this sight but feeling unable to really process it.

_'Is this a test, Will? What I would do for you?'_

Will licks his lips, an antsy shiver going through him as his hands reach out. He can't wait. He buries his fingers in Hannibal's longer hair (soft, so soft, why hasn't he touched it more?) and he pulls Hannibal's head in. Will is still blatant, he presses Hannibal's mouth to his softening cock and sways his hips to rub the wet patch of clothing against Hannibal's cheek and then his lips. Will's heart jackhammers in his chest as he lets himself groan.

* * *

It takes monumental self control to remain exactly as he is once he gets onto his knees. The floor is hard under his knees but that isn't the main concern. Hannibal's more or less eye level with the evidence of Will's pleasure and the scent is much thicker here. It's heady and tempting in a way little has ever been. As he kneels, Hannibal spares a small thought to the man he had been, who had often simply wrinkled his nose at the smell of sex. Then Will Graham had entered his life and now Hannibal wonders if he's ever smelled anything more tempting. It's all he can do to avoid closing his eyes to savor the scent. Instead, keeping his control, he keeps his eyes on Will, chin tilted up to look up at his face.

The soft curse lingers in his mind, the soft breath of a sound Will had let out when he'd realized what Hannibal had been willing to do for him. As he curiously meets Will's eyes and wonders what Will is intending with this, he sees more evidence of Will's desire. The quick flick of his tongue out to wet his lips, the barely-there shiver that Hannibal can make out, and then Will surprises him by reaching out to slide his fingers through Hannibal's hair. He goes still, uncertain yet still curious, and when Will's fingers curl and move (petting, Hannibal's mind helpfully supplies; Will is petting his hair) he lets himself sigh. It's more contact than Will has issued in some time, minus the way he'd nuzzled Hannibal's thigh not a few minutes ago.

He's not forgotten his anger. It's thick and cloying, distracting, but Hannibal hardly minds. Will Graham is his focus, and so he is quite _focused_ when the hands in his hair suddenly tighten and pull. Hannibal reaches a hand out to brace himself on the wall as Will jerks him off balance, but before he so much as touches the wall, his senses flare hot. He'd dragged in a quick breath of surprise and found it smothered in Will's scent, and it takes very little time for Hannibal to realize that the way he finds himself pressed to the damp front of Will's pants is _very_ deliberate. Hannibal closes his eyes with a soft, punched-out breath. This close, Will's scent is staggering and Hannibal wishes nothing more than to taste, to turn his head and mouth at the softening line of Will's cock, to let the bitterness of his come burst across his tongue.

Will isn't helping matters. He's blatant. Instead of merely pressing Hannibal there, he rolls his hips, rubbing his come-wet pants against Hannibal's cheek, and then against his lips. Hannibal shudders and while he does attempt to muffle the sound, he can't. He groans, a wanting, frustrated sound, as Will is so _close_ to him. All he'd need to do would be to open his mouth and taste, but for all Hannibal knows, this is a test as well. He'd given his word. There is a fine tremor in his body as he kneels there, though. He feels arousal curling hot, feels the dampness at the front of his own slacks spread, and while the pounding anger from before is still there, it's muted by this. Will's scent is everywhere, and Hannibal can feel the slick against his cheek, his lips. Will's come. Yet he doesn't dare so much as wet his own lips no matter how tempting it is. Instead, he struggles to regain his control and only half-succeeds. The look in his eyes is dark and wanting when he finally glances up at Will, and Hannibal turns his head enough to supply his cheek again simply so he can get a breath to speak.

"What... what do you _want_ , Will?" Hannibal asks, and his voice is thicker with his desire. "Give me instruction, or permission. I'll not do anything without your consent."

* * *

Will should get Hannibal a cushion for his knees. He should be more careful, more wary of the wounds, but he knows he won't be, that he can't be. Not right now. Not when he feels that quiet sense of power again, not when he feels an arousal that can't _go anywhere_ because he's already gotten off. But it still persists, the mental excitement and a lower coiling, an ache almost, but not the ache of separation. (There's not an ocean between them now, no miles, no lies, they're here now, here together...)

And he still can feel Hannibal's rage toward Bedelia. He can feel the want and arousal and it's Will, it's _him_ who has the control over this situation. Over Hannibal. His hands are in Hannibal's hair and he's not being rough, but Hannibal is being pliant, letting him direct. Fuck. This is messed up. Will could understand the appeal of this from a degradation standpoint, but he's not trying to degrade Hannibal. He just wants...

Wants to be closer. Wants to connect and show and feel and smell and listen to all things Hannibal. Hannibal bleeds into everything, every sense. Will's focus is narrowed in on this man on his knees in front of him. Hannibal is letting him rub his face against the wetness, against come that's leaked through his boxers and pajama pants. And the sound that Hannibal makes - a needy, frustrated sound - has Will biting his lip to try and quiet himself because his empathy feels all over the place right now.

_'What... what do you want, Will? ...Give me instruction, or permission. I'll not do anything without your consent.'_

Hannibal is being practical, but underneath that the words are a promise to him. Will shudders and has to look away from Hannibal's dark eyes for a moment. Hannibal is waiting for permission. _His_ permission. Will's fingers stroke through Hannibal's hair a few times and he tries to take in a steadying breath (it doesn't really work).

"Will you..." He begins and then shakes his head. "I want you to taste me, Hannibal. Want you to lick me clean." The words are out and before Will can think better of it, his hands abandon Hannibal's head to come to the waistband of the pajama pants, fingers hooking underneath the band--

But no, not like this. A moment later, he catches Hannibal's eyes. "You can slip 'em off, you can lick and suck and do whatever with your mouth and hands." His voice is stained with arousal and nerves. He's never been interested in someone cleaning him after such a thing, but fuck he's invested in this now.

* * *

Will's actions may be deliberate but Hannibal doubts this has been planned. Despite the desire curling thick and hot through him, he hasn't lost his ability to read Will. The look in Will's eyes is as shocked and stunned and nervous as ever. Impulsive, then. For a moment Hannibal considers pulling back to clear his own head, but his control has its limits. This is not a knife to Will's throat. This is not Will wearing him as a second skin. Will is present in this moment, and his own violence seems like it's been slaked by Hannibal's. Perhaps this is reckless but this is something that Will is asking of him. (Yet Hannibal wonders just how much Will is going to accept this later. In a few hours, in a few days, will the knife be back in his hand? Will he resent Hannibal for this moment?)

It's difficult to think ahead to what _could_ happen when Will's fingers are in his hair, the damp press of his pajama pants against Hannibal's cheek the definition of temptation. Every breath is full of Will's scent, the faded taste upon the air. That Hannibal manages to grind out his statement is a miracle in and of itself, and when Will shudders and looks away from him, Hannibal knows that Will understands. This isn't merely something that Hannibal has said to win over Will's trust. If Will tells him he can't taste, or that he can't touch beyond this, he won't. This is Will testing his own limitations. Many forget that despite the titles - submissive and dominant - it is not the dominant who holds the power. Hannibal's power over Will hinges _entirely_ on Will's permission over him, but this is the first time Hannibal believes that Will understands that on a visceral level. Every movement is rife with: _Can I trust you?_ Hannibal intends for the only answer to be _yes_.

Will's fingers work through his hair, as if he's attempting to ground himself. Before Hannibal can say anything more, Will seems to come to a decision, and while he corrects himself (from a request to a command) his voice is strong. Hannibal's breath catches on a rougher exhale. Should he? Should he taste? Should he lick Will clean? It isn't a question of whether or not he wants to, but it is a question of whether or not he _should_. He leans back just a little on his heels as Will reaches for the waistband of his own pants, but in the end, Will catches his eyes eyes and tells Hannibal to do it instead. His voice is thick with nerves, with arousal, and Hannibal's decision is made for him.

He recalls how abandoned Will had felt when Hannibal had denied him in the catacombs. Right now he believes that denial would be worse than acceptance. Or maybe Hannibal simply _wants_. Whatever the reason, he's made his decision, and his next exhale is thick and unsteady as he reaches both of his hands up to the hem of Will's pajama pants.

"Remember 'good grief', Will," Hannibal says, as _he_ hasn't forgotten, but it's the only warning he gives.

He carefully hooks his fingers past the hem of Will's pants and boxers, and then eases the waistband away. He slides them down slowly, silently admiring every new inch of skin exposed to him. His eyes darken at the sight of Will's hipbones, the elegant slope leading down towards his cock, and Hannibal lifts the fabric _away_ to pull it down so that it doesn't remain too oversensitive. Then he merely looks with Will bared to him. It's not the first time he's seen Will bared to him but it _is_ the first time it's been in this context. He's stunning, and the scent is enough to make Hannibal ache more. He swallows a few times and breathes in the heady scent of sex and musk and come. Then he sets his hands on Will's bared hips and leans in slowly enough that Will could tell him _no_ immediately.

He doesn't. And while Hannibal wants nothing more than to take Will's cock into his mouth and taste him directly, he leans in beside it instead, where there's a smear of wetness from the way Will had been rubbing himself in his boxers. Hannibal's tongue meets the skin of Will's inner thigh and he licks a long, slow stripe up to do as he'd been told. The taste is bitter the way come always is, but Hannibal groans on a punched-out exhale as it's _Will_ and _Will's_ come and it's all he can do to keep licking slowly. He focuses on the small, stray drops and thin smears first, getting Will used to the feeling before he dares do anything else.

* * *

Should he want this? Should he tell Hannibal to do this? Will doesn't know, but Hannibal's doing it, he's on his knees. This isn't even something he's fantasized about and yet urge and desire have reared their heads and he's given in. Will's _giving_ in. It's been weeks since they’ve shared a kiss and the only touch sustaining him has been the methodical wound care. In the face of Hannibal's hunger for him, Will feels an answering starvation. God, Hannibal _wants_ him, but he wants him enough to _wait_ , enough to ask and need _permission_. It's mind blowing.

Will is completely out of his element. He's admitted his lack of any real sexual experience with men but now he's effectively telling Hannibal to yank down his boxers and whip out his softening dick. And Will knows he's a mess and come can't smell good, surely, but he can fucking tell that Hannibal wants to taste him. Hannibal _wants_ to. Hannibal is living this twisted moment of intimacy with him. It may have started with a, 'what the fuck happened for you to want to eat my brain?' and it may have descended down a darker path, painting a target on Bedelia DuMaurier, but this is _their_ moment now.

Hannibal's hands come to the hem of his pants and of course Hannibal brings up his safe word. It somehow doesn't even ruin the moment. In the back of his mind, yeah sure, Will is a little irritated that Hannibal is bringing it up - as if he needs to be reminded that he can make it all stop - but it just proves Hannibal's is committed to proving that he's trustworthy.

(And Will thinks Hannibal's fingers are picking up a needle - a sewing needle this time - and he's going to stitch his holes closed with their red thread, one by one, little by little, Hannibal's hands will mend too.)

Will's eyes are wide as he blinks and focuses on watching Hannibal obey him, on his hands easing clothing down and exposing his wet cock. His stomach feels tight with nerves to be exposing himself like this -- cock softening and come smeared over his skin. It's not how Will thought his first time being naked in this context was going to go. Not in the least. But why should anything be normal when it comes to them?

And Will's hands return to Hannibal's hair, first stroking and then gripping because when Hannibal leans in, the sight alone is fucking pornographic. It might not be his dick that Hannibal's mouth starts with, but it's still Hannibal licking his fucking _come_ and Will squirms, a needy excited whine being vocalized.

"Christ, Hannibal," Will exclaims after, voice tight. "I can't believe you're actually doing this." And if Will could get hard, he'd be there in an instant.

* * *

Will's fingers sliding slowly through his hair are the last missing piece to this encounter. Hannibal's eyes close and he looks torn between reverence and contentment before settling on an amalgamation of both. Perhaps this is not everything he wants from this man, but it's one of many things he's ached for. This isn't a chaste, gentle kiss (and Hannibal is still concerned what the repercussions from this might be later) but he hopes that Will is ready for it. Yes, he's nervous; Hannibal can feel the tension and feel the stiffness of Will's muscles under his hands, but there's no shifting, no uncertainty, nothing that tells him _no_. Nervous or not, Will's fingers are encouraging, and when they grip, Hannibal fights back a hiss that is equal parts pleasure and pain. Pleasure as he enjoys hands in his hair like this, and pain because the resulting shiver curls over the brand and sets fire to his skin.

Yet Hannibal is reasonably certain that not even a knife to the charred, severely-burned skin to his back could drag him from this now. Only Will's hesitation, his safeword, or _no_ could do that at this point. Will's skin is hot and flushed a healthy pink, the slight tang of sweat present in a way that makes Hannibal wish to explore properly, but he's been given permission for this and this alone and he intends to honor Will's instructions. So he licks, and as he does, he discovers another benefit. Will's squirming speaks wonders, and the whine Hannibal hears is nothing short of exquisite. Were he a lesser man, he'd have cursed upon hearing it for the first time, but as it is, he can't mask a groan.

That Will aches badly enough to still feel the curl of mental arousal even if his refractory period won't allow more is thrilling. That Will wants what he does is even more so. It likely won't be comfortable; Hannibal expects it to sting with a sharp, pleasurable sensitivity, and the thought of Will caught in that sensation almost makes him abandon his task in favor of the one he wishes more. He doesn't. Instead his thumbs stroke slow, careful circles in the dip of Will's hipbones and he licks long stripes over Will's skin, shameless in the wake of Will watching him because what use has he in pretending he doesn't want this? In this, Hannibal can afford transparency. Like this, honesty is inherent. Perhaps it's another reason why he wishes Will to experience this. Will needs a solid foundation. He needs to trust. This could help.

Will's voice is beautifully tight when he speaks, and his awe is almost palpable. Hannibal shivers and it hurts but he cares little. "I am." Hannibal looks up at Will for a moment and then leans over to the other side, cleaning the come from Will's other thigh, chasing the taste. "And I'm enjoying it." In case it wasn't obvious. In case Will had failed to notice Hannibal savoring the taste and licking again in places to make sure he'd gotten everything. Hannibal works slowly enough to savor and to give Will time to adjust, but despite this, it doesn't take long to clean him of the traces of come. Hannibal's anger is still there, still locked away, but the fire is still behind his eyes when he again lifts them to look up at Will.

"You want me to clean it _all_ , Will?" Hannibal asks softly. He doesn't so much as blink until he catches Will's nod, and even then, Hannibal holds Will's gaze for a moment. He wants to make sure Will knows what he's asking for, but the answer doesn't seem to change.

Hannibal is the one to shift slightly as he readjusts his position, though not to reach easier. He can feel the wetness in his own slacks and suspects that he could find his own pleasure exactly like this were he to let himself, but Will is still his priority. It doesn't change anything, though, and when Hannibal leans in enough to breathe in the heady, thick scent, he gives Will a few seconds longer to change his mind. Then he leans in to nose gently at soft skin and the intimacy in the idea that Will wishes his mouth when he's not even hard is humbling. Hannibal breathes a soft sound and then wastes no time as he licks at the base of Will's cock, mouthing at it and pressing his lips to the skin. He still wishes to ease Will into this before he opens his mouth for him properly, though the desire is almost overwhelming.

* * *

Hannibal looks pleased, like the cat that just got the cream. Will is the fucking cream. Will can't even fault him for it because he _knows_ there's more going on than this seemingly depraved act they're embarking on. Hannibal may be on his knees (because Will's ordered it) and Hannibal may be licking him clean (because Will's ordered it), but this is so much more than the sum of their positions and physical actions.

It's intimacy and it's trust. It's indulgence and it's desire. It's also a risk -- possibly a great risk at that because while Will may be feeling good _now_ , there's no guarantee he'll be okay with it _later_. But his empathy can be tricky and it's fucking _Hannibal_ who's lovingly cleaning him up like a dog, thoroughly licking up his release and groaning and Will is so very invested in seeing this through.

Hannibal's thumbs massage a reassuring circular pattern on his hips and Will tries his damndest to remain present, to watch Hannibal and not look away, even when Hannibal is answering him and fucking admitting that he's _enjoying_ it. And yeah, Will can only nod that he wants it all -- wants Hannibal to clean off his cock too.

He's never done anything like this before. A woman swallowed or she didn't -- he'd never made or asked or even _wanted_ them to lick his come after the fact. Hannibal moves nearer. Will can hear him take a deeper inhalation -- _smelling_ him and Will gasps because that's so personal and of course Hannibal wants to experience everything. Fuck, fuck, fuck. And then Hannibal's soft mouth is against him and it's sensitive--

Will opens his own mouth. “After... After we ate the ortolans," Will begins, needing to talk to distract himself (at least that's what he's going with). "I jerked off in a bathroom stall at work." Will gives a half-hearted chuckle, a little embarrassed to be admitting this, but not enough to stop. "I got so hard at the idea of you watching me. I wanted you to watch me..." He can't admit _what_ he wanted Hannibal to watch. "Watching intently like you had when I tried the bird." Will's hands tighten in Hannibal's hair as he tries to not fidget..

* * *

The sharp gasp that escapes Will's throat is thrilling in its intensity and Hannibal silently basks in the knowledge that while Will may not be hard, he _is_ aroused. There are multiple types of arousal, and Will is attentive and invested in this moment. Hannibal doesn't doubt that had he not come so recently, he'd be hard now. Given the sounds Will keeps making, he has no doubt and the thought is as humbling as it is thrilling.

Yet Hannibal finds himself somewhat taken aback when Will begins to _speak_ as Hannibal's lips and tongue first touch the sensitive skin of his cock. He glances up, initially curious and then nearly rapt as Will mentions the ortolans. It had been fitting at the time and Hannibal recalls the shared sensation of power acutely. He's wondered time and time again whether or not Will had been genuine in that moment. Along with other moments during the months away from him, there had been days where he'd managed to convince himself that the entire thing had been an act on Will's part. Listening to him now, the waver in his voice, the breathlessness, the desperate bid for control (as Hannibal knows what this is), he knows Will had been genuine. It settles something warm and viciously satisfied in his chest.

Hannibal's tongue works slowly, lapping around the base of Will's cock and silently reveling in the bitterness. Somehow hearing Will talk - realizing that Will had been driven to touching himself following the meal they'd shared - makes it all the better. Hannibal's next breath escapes him on a soft groan, and he lips at the delicate skin of Will's cock, sucking only hard enough to even be considered suction as he pictures what Will must have looked like. He sounds embarrassed, thrilled, and Hannibal basks in it. And when Will's hands tighten in his hair enough to send another cascading shiver down Hannibal's spine, there's only one thing to say. Hannibal draws back just enough to wet his lips, and he meets Will's eyes blatantly.

"I'm watching you _now,_ Will _._ "

There's no denying the intensity in his gaze either. As he had when Will had slid the ortolan past his lips, Hannibal is rapt. He drinks in the sight of Will post-coital and yet still aroused, and when he leans back in, Hannibal merely hopes that Will has readied himself for the sensitivity that will likely wash over him. Hannibal parts his lips and takes the soft head of Will's cock past his lips, working over it slowly with his tongue to clean what he can. Then he takes more in and repeats it, licking and gently sucking all while watching Will.

* * *

At one point Will would have been horrified to share such a dirty little secret. Alcohol, yeah, alcohol could have helped loosen his tongue, but he very much doubts that he'd have willingly opened up about. Not like this. Not out of the blue. And it's actually liberating in a sense to be confessing it, sharing it. Yeah, it's a bid to scrape back some control. It's also to rile Hannibal up. (He's may not be burning this house down, but he will fan the flames higher... After all, in that bathroom stall, when Will had finally come, it had been to the thought of being drowned alive in Armagnac and roasted while Hannibal watched.)

But Hannibal isn't going to kill him. Hannibal isn't going to eat him and Hannibal isn't going to hurt him. These realizations string, like pressing on a bruise, and yet Will knows it's a necessary pain. It's proof that he's alive. Alive. Not dead, not counted among that rather long list attached to Hannibal's name...

Will sees Hannibal's curiosity change into interest, into delight and this only adds to the depraved thrill of vocalizing it. Will had been lying about killing Freddie, but the feelings... All Will had to do was think back to the boy who felt like a beast... He'd killed Randall Tier. Granted, it had been out of self-defense, but Will had felt powerful smashing his fists into Tier's face again and again.

Hannibal's licking is gentle, yet insistent. Will can feel the air against the wet spots on his thighs. His cock is sensitive from his own furious rubbing and having just climaxed, but Hannibal's tongue is silky and hot and his hips instinctively gravitate towards it. And then the heat and wetness are gone, but before Will can even respond, Hannibal is speaking to him. Hannibal's words and tone fill Will with an insidious heat that has him actually flinching. Hannibal's lips are wet, Will can see a slight sheen on them. Hannibal is... Hannibal is going to--

He's far too invested in this. He should stop this and be practical. Be at least _a little_ smart and move somewhere private but Will is transfixed on Hannibal. He's not going to stop. He can't stop. Will's breath is ragged and when Hannibal returns to the task, Will's not expecting the sheer jolt of sensitivity when Hannibal's mouth takes him in. It's a battle between over-sensitivity and the fucking torrent of arousal that rips through him to have Hannibal sucking and licking at his dick. It doesn't matter that he's not hard, it's intimate. It's so fucking intimate.

"Thought about... thought about you watching me kill," Will grits out. A particular swipe of Hannibal's tongue has Will's head falling back against the wall with a thud and he honest to God _whines_. "Christ, Hannibal." Will shudders, his hands loosening to rake his fingers through Hannibal's hair, trying to distract himself. It doesn't help.

* * *

In a sense this is ill-advised. There is a possibility that Chiyoh could return from her room, though Hannibal doubts it. She doesn't enjoy spending her time around Will Graham and at the moment, her aversion is a boon to them both, for this is not something that Hannibal wishes to share. The picture Will makes is pure temptation and Hannibal silently basks in how he looks, how he sounds, the stuttering of each breath and the way Will's fingers grip and stroke through his hair. This is clearly sensitive, perhaps to a detriment, and yet Will doesn't tell him to stop. He doesn't twist away or shove Hannibal back, and it takes only moments for Hannibal to ascertain that this is something Will is going to allow for some time.

So Hannibal allows himself to focus. He doesn't stop watching Will, but he does draw his attention to the rest of his senses. While Will isn't hard, his cock is still a weight against Hannibal's tongue and there is a beautiful intimacy in this. Perhaps Will feels pleasure (and the thought of _pleasuring_ Will is enough to nearly overwhelm Hannibal with the desire to do more) but this isn't about achieving orgasm. Like this, on his knees, his hands on Will's hips and his thumbs rubbing small circles in the dip of Will's hipbones, this is far more akin to worship.

Whether Will realizes or not isn't important. All that _is_ important is Will's rough admission, that he'd thought about Hannibal watching him kill. Hannibal remembers Tier's body laid out on his dining room table, the deep cuts and gouges against Will's knuckles from striking bone. He remembers wishing he could have seen the display, though he had taken his own satisfaction in assisting Will with his _true_ display after. Perhaps it had not been the glorious curl of power that Hannibal had ached to see, but it had been beautiful just the same. Now, looking up as Will's head tips back and the most thrilling sound escapes him, Hannibal believes this moment has surpassed the other. A lance of desire curls hot through him and his own exhale is sharp through his nose, a punch of sound as his thumbs stroke slow and rhythmic over Will's hips.

Hannibal's tongue moves slowly, as there is a side of him that doesn't wish to rush, regardless of how ill-advised a moment this is. He tastes Will's come, basks in the scent this close, and takes great care not to lose himself in his own fixation. Instead his focus is on Will, on minding his teeth and regulating suction, on the bitter, salty taste on his tongue that he takes his time in cleaning off. It would be so easy to turn this into something else, to work at properly riling Will up, but Hannibal finds that he enjoys this. He's thrilled by Will's oversensitivity, his shuddering, the fingers raking through his hair, the way his voice nearly breaks in pleasure. Hannibal licks, letting Will's soft cock rest against his tongue, and when he does pull back to respond, his own voice is lower with desire.

"I would have liked to have seen you kill Tier. You would have been violent in your power, controlled. The break in his neck was deliberate." Hannibal's lips ghost over the sensitive head of Will's cock. "Maybe one day, if it is something you can bear, your fantasy may not have to remain a mere fantasy."

* * *

The whole thing is obscene and yet it's like Will's been introduced to a new drug. It's hit his system with vengeance -- intense and demanding, and he can't help but want to ride out this twisted high for as long as possible. _God,_ it's Hannibal Lecter on his knees, cleaning his dick off... And he's talking about killing and being _watched_. It's hard to keep this thoughts organized. It's hard to wrap his mind around what's going on and that _he's_ actually the one who's started this. (Ripping off muzzles, yanking leashes. The imagery is overwhelming, the implication, the implication--)

It's like he's trying to run ahead while fighting some bizarre emergence of vertigo and trying to keep upright. Will's hoping he doesn't trip and land on his ass in the process as he's not slowing down or stopping. _Thou shall not kill._ It's a fucking commandment. It's one of the most serious crimes in a society. Unlawful killing, premeditated killing... He used to teach, to help shape the minds of tomorrow to catch the bad guys, and yet here he is confessing that there is a part of him that would get off on Hannibal watching him kill, on the demise of another.

Of course they just have to be guilty in Will's eyes. Despicable in some way. Vigilante killings. An avenging angel complex, how quaint. Hannibal hadn't seen pleased with the idea of criteria, but fuck, Will knows Hannibal would do it if it meant pleasing him. What a messed up and humbling thought. It causes a jittery shiver to work its way down his spine. His skin feels like it's crawling, he's hot even though he's only in the sweater and his boxers and pants are around his knees. Hot, soft, wet-- Hannibal's mouth and tongue capture his physical attention, but Hannibal's words - ' _if it is something you can bear, your fantasy may not have to remain a mere fantasy'_ \- Hannibal's words a treacherous promise.

Will then yanks on Hannibal's hair, his fingers curling in soft stands. He feels too exposed now, so very revealed and he's got to... Got to...

"Think you can get off doing this, Hannibal?" Will asks, his voice shaky. He's not thinking when his bare foot seeks out Hannibal's crotch and presses softly to the hardness trapped under dress pants. The sole of his foot rubs lightly. He's got to affect Hannibal, he wants to explore just how depraved this moment can get.

* * *

The words are reckless and tempting in a way they shouldn't be, and Hannibal finds himself silently thrilled by what Will's response might be. It's a risk. Perhaps Will wishes to muzzle him, to add conditions onto Hannibal's proclivities, but that doesn't necessarily mean he wishes to kill. For all of Will's apparent fantasies, for all of his power, for every moment he's told Hannibal that he wants it _all_ , there's no proof. There's no certainty. It's dangerous to so much as suggest it, but with Will's mind clouded with oversensitivity, Hannibal hopes that the fallout will be avoided. He doesn't wish Will to recoil, to suddenly regain his senses. He wishes his walls down, wishes to see what Will truly thinks, if only in this unguarded moment.

The sudden sharp yank to his hair sends a rush of sensation down Hannibal's spine and he grunts sharply. His back sets up a silent scream at the ripple of sensation that washes over charred skin but despite that, it does nothing to lessen Hannibal's desire. The fingers in his hair are tight, Will's grip sure, and when Will shakily manages his question, Hannibal looks up at him. His own eyes are hooded with desire, the taste of Will's come flooding his senses, and he does believe that were he so inclined, he could come like this as well. Sex has a mental component to it as well, and Hannibal's thoughts are stitched together with desire. Perhaps Will says nothing in regards to whether or not he'd wish to kill, but he's clearly interested in something. That his pleasure seems to coincide with Hannibal's words is a telling coincidence.

Yet despite this, Hannibal is not expecting Will to be blatant. Shy of this, Will has only allowed the softest of kisses, the barest of touches. That he's even allowing _this_ is proof of how much he'd reacted to Hannibal's flare of rage. He believes this will not last. Will won't continue this. Perhaps he'll ask Hannibal to touch himself, to press the heel of his hand between his legs and debase himself. Perhaps he'll tease and then lose confidence and instead leave Hannibal wanting. But no, instead of either option, Will chooses a third.

The press of his foot is sudden and Hannibal's breath catches on a sharp gasp. He's sensitive, the front of his slacks damp in places from his precome, and the touch - any touch - is a surprise. He glances down just for long enough to ascertain that _yes_ , Will is touching him. And apparently Will doesn't wish him to debase _himself_. There's something almost degrading about the concept of Will using his foot, something dismissive, and yet Hannibal still presses into the touch. Perhaps, like cleaning the come from Will's skin, this also holds a level of distant intimacy. He breathes a soft groan and slowly sits back on his heels, spreading his knees to allow Will more freedom. He can still reach Will's cock like this, he merely needs to pull him a little closer, which he does.

"Yes," he breathes, and even the word sounds rough. "Yes, I can." His hips shift, rocking against the touch, and pleasure curls insidiously through him. It only sparks higher when he turns back to Will's cock and looks back up at him as he leans in and carefully takes it into his mouth again.

* * *

It's a cock. Under the slacks, it's Hannibal's dick. The bottom of his foot is against it. Will's started this too. Will's moved and initiated this and he's not going to stop either. Because Hannibal's breath catches and he spreads his knees to allow it and a spike of arousal jolts sharply through Will at the sight. It's an allowance. Permission. And then Hannibal _gives_ an answer too and hearing it is a gratifying _experience_. It only gets worse (better) when Hannibal blatantly pushes against his foot. This is now topping all of his sexual experiences and it's his fucking foot and there's still clothes between them and Will doesn't really know what he's doing. It doesn't make much sense. Will isn't even weird like this. He doesn't have some freaky foot fetish and yet...

"Dammit, Hannibal," Will hisses out, his eyes wide and staring down at the now more debauched image Hannibal makes. Hannibal leans in and his mouth is around Will's soft cock again and Will winces at the sensitivity. "Too much..." But is it really? Or is it just scratching the itch? Taking the edge off because it's been _weeks_ since they were last truly intimate in touch and maybe he needs this.

Will does need this. He may not be _ready_ for this, but everything in his body is desperate for _more_ and _Hannibal_. So he doesn't pull away. So he rubs his foot along the bulge present.... and then clues in that there's actual dampness on Hannibal's pants too.

"You're leaking," Will points out. It's a pointless statement, but he's never claimed to be good at dirty talk (or whatever this is). Will lets his fingers stroke through Hannibal's hair, pulling a little as he breathes quickly in an attempt to collect himself. Hannibal is aroused by him, so much so that precome has leaked through his clothing. Will finds this beyond arousing as he purposefully wiggles his toes against the damp spot.

"Doing... Doing bad things to bad people does make me feel good," Will rushes out. It's an admission that causes a sick heat to fill him, a shout back to Hannibal's words to him. Bedelia is no Ingram or Tier. She's not Chiyoh's prisoner, she's not Mischa's killer. But Bedelia DuMaurier is far from innocent and she'd sought to encourage Hannibal to kill him, her tongue whispering such sentiments and planting a most foul idea.

And now the idea, the promise of Hannibal going after her... _For him_. Will squirms at the light suction, at the gravity of the fucking situation. Hannibal's mouth is sin. Hannibal who doesn't hide from God... And he's so gentle and attentive with Will's flesh that is hurts in a way Will isn't prepared for.

* * *

The moment that Will tells him it's too much, Hannibal is all set to draw back, but he very quickly notices that Will's fingers don't leave his hair. If anything they merely grip tighter, sparking a pained pleasure along Hannibal's scalp. Yes, he feels good. Oh, he's certain this will blow up in his face in due time, but Will's attention feels good. Perhaps it's not his hand, his mouth, or even his thigh, but it _is_ contact and it feels perfect. This is debauchery at its finest and despite the flickering rage over what he had almost been made to do to Will, this is where he wishes to be. When Hannibal takes Will's soft cock back into his mouth, it's part reciprocation and part desire of his own. Perhaps he could entice Will back into arousal were he so inclined. He can feel the thin skin along Will's frenulum with his tongue and he suspects that gentle stimulation could urge him back regardless of how exhausted his body is, yet Will hasn't asked for it. Hannibal isn't about to push Will into anything he isn't ready for.

Though his resolve is quickly being tested. His focus splits itself between the heady bitterness and the scent surrounding him, and the press of Will's foot against the front of his slacks. He cares little _what_ Will is touching him with. _That_ he's being touched is what's important. Perhaps the method is... unconventional, and holds a level of degradation to it, but each press of Will's foot to his slacks feels good. Hannibal presses into it, and when Will breathlessly points out that he's 'leaking' - an apt statement, although somewhat rhetorical - Hannibal groans softly around the weight in his mouth. He suckles gently, fighting for his own control, but it cracks around the edges as Will's toes wiggle. The pressure varies and Hannibal's next exhale - muffled by Will's cock - almost has the cadence of a curse to it.

Yet he cannot continue without comment. Will's admission sparks a deep recognition within him and Hannibal looks up at him, his eyes half-lidded in pleasure yet still dark with arousal and sharp with interest.

"You feel good as it plays into your sense of justice," Hannibal says once he sucks his way back off of Will's cock. He presses his cheek to Will's thigh, close enough to catch his scent, each breath likely felt quite intimately as he struggles not to roll his hips and instead allows Will to give him what he's comfortable with. "You weigh the scales of Osiris to judge misdeeds. Or... perhaps King Minos, Aeacus, and Radamanthus would be more accurate. Their punishments for the souls in Tartarus were always fitting, always matched their crimes. You wish to take their place here. You wish _her_ punishment to fit her crimes."

He won't directly mention Bedelia right now, not like this. This may be important, perhaps his rage had sparked this, but her name won't grace his lips when they're so close to Will. Hannibal blatantly breathes him in and lets out a low, somewhat breathless groan of need. His hands curl against Will's hips, thumbs pressing in hard enough to bruise. He aches; his cock is straining against the fabric covering it, but he doesn't move to free himself or encourage Will in this. Instead he brushes his lips along the soft skin on the side of Will's cock and looks back up at him.

"Too sensitive? Or may I continue?"

* * *

How would Hannibal touch him? If - when - he's allowed, would it be tenderly or roughly? Will can't help but wonder about it now. Does Hannibal want to delve into sadism or treat him like a teacup? Hannibal's mouth is gentle on him, but his grip on his waist is tight enough to leave bruises. Hannibal could hurt him. God, Will can still remember the number Hannibal had done on _all_ of them in the span of one evening. Such collateral. Playing with fire, playing with knives. Will should... Will should know better and try to keep himself safe. He shouldn't... he shouldn't bare his throat and let Hannibal pull this out of him.

Because who's really in control here? Will knows he can put a stop to this all, but it's Hannibal flooding his senses and fuck, how can he pull away now? How can he seek the safety and familiarity of being alone when Hannibal is steadily sewing them together tighter? Would there even be any point? Isn't it about time they crash into each other? An inevitable event, a promise carved into his skin, the thread tangled around his heart. (And Will knows it's a noose, a ball and chain -- Hannibal is a certain heaviness on his soul that cannot be shrugged off.)

Hannibal, Hannibal, Hannibal... Will's going to be destroyed isn't he? His former self decimated in the wake of Hannibal but maybe it's not so bad. Maybe it's time to to give up his loneliness, to see uniqueness reflected back in Hannibal. Broken, but then remade, his jagged edges not hurting Hannibal, but instead lining up to fit.

But is he really a judge for souls? What makes him worthy of such a task, what makes him qualified? The fact that he could and would, Will supposes. And Will believes Hannibal would let him. Of course Hannibal would let him. Hannibal's mouth may be sin, but his words are sweet like honey and Will is Eve and he's going to fucking take a bite out of the apple because he's tired of fighting.

"Fuck," Will curses as he feels and hears Hannibal inhale his scent. No more something with a ship on the bottle. This is far more intimate than they have ever been. He closes his eyes, feeling Hannibal's lips ghost along the side of his dick. He's all cleaned off now. Hannibal has achieved what Will had set out for him to do and yet...

"Want you to suck until I get hard again," is what comes out of Will's mouth. "I want to come down your throat." He nudges Hannibal's cock with his foot. "I want you to come in your pants, just like I did."

* * *

There is a part of Hannibal that is asking whether or not Will is too sensitive for a reason. If Will says he is, he'll stop. His task is complete. Honestly, if he's being candid, his task has likely been completed for over a minute now, but Hannibal is reluctant to give up this new intimacy now that he's got it. Will's touch - even if it is his bare foot, toes curling and pressing and wiggling against the damp spot on the front of his slacks - only adds to the sensation, but he's been caught in this for awhile. The moment he'd smelled Will's arousal, the moment Will's hand had drifted between them and he'd watched the pleasure light on Will's face, Hannibal had been snared. Now, though he doesn't _need_ to continue, he wants to. It's ill-advised. This likely won't end well in the long run but he aches for this man hourly. Will Graham occupies his thoughts more often than not.

So hearing Will's curse, feeling the visceral shudder that seems to work through Will's body, Hannibal forces himself still. It's difficult when he wishes nothing more than to move back in and give Will pleasure, or to rock his own hips forward. He doesn't. Instead he waits, and Hannibal doesn't miss the irony in this. He's on his knees in front of the man who owns seven dogs, awaiting permission for a treat. Were the moment not so charged, Hannibal knows he'd be amused. As it is he just basks in the moment.

Yet when Will finally says what he wants, Hannibal's eyes slide closed on a rough, visceral groan. It's nothing he hasn't fantasized about for weeks (months, if he's being honest, perhaps years) but there's a difference in hearing it out loud. Will's voice is rough and breathless and desire surges so hotly within Hannibal at the very notion that he needs a long few moments to compose himself. Will makes it difficult as he moves his foot, and this time Hannibal doesn't hold himself back. He rolls his hips forwards, mindless of the picture he must make, and his breath stutters only for a second before he manages a quick nod.

"Yes, Will," Hannibal manages, and his lips brush hot against the soft skin of Will's cock. "Just... let me know if it becomes too much."

In this, Hannibal doesn't need to be told twice. The floor under his knees is hard but he doesn't care. Hannibal merely presses Will back against the wall by his hips and edges in a little closer. His attention is focused on Will, the look in his eyes darker with desire. There's no hesitation when he leans in again, and while he does carefully tongue just under the head of Will's cock, no longer is he merely looking to clean up the mess Will had made. Now Hannibal actually tries, his tongue quick, working carefully along the line of Will's frenulum, skimming over his slit to chase the remnants of his taste. He's still careful not to suck too hard immediately; he doesn't wish Will to safeword out of intensity. Yet despite this, Hannibal does begin to suck properly, light and teasing one moment and then focused with precise flicks of his tongue the next. He's taken Will's instructions to heart.

* * *

Feeling Hannibal push against his foot is a reward that Will hadn't been quite prepared for. It causes a delicious arousal to jolt through his system. God, he wants Hannibal to use him, to use his foot -- to debase himself and rut against it. For the veneer of composure to be stripped away. He wants to hear and see and feel all things _Hannibal_. It's certainly no fantasy he's had before, but Will has a feeling there's going to be more of those to come. Hannibal's fingers are prying open his seams and the darkness filters out over some invisible gradient. Who all knows what would make an appearance? Will's a little excited at the prospect of seeing what's all been shaken loose. (He's also apprehensive.) Rip open the stitches, let it out, stitch him back up, stitch him back to Hannibal. Together they will be Doctor Frankenstein's monster. Sounds about right to him.

Conjoined, he'd said in Italy. He feels closer to Hannibal than ever now. Maybe it should be worrisome that the the snake Bedelia has wound them closer, that they've bonded over a death sentence, but this is what he's hitched to now. This is who he wants, for better or worse (and there's been enough 'worse' between them, it's time for 'better').

Hannibal agrees, his lips moving against Will's flaccid cock and Hannibal may be on his knees at Will's command, but his hands push Will against the wall and Will is again reminded that Hannibal has been the top predator for all his life. Will had almost lost his life to him. He hears Chilton's voice overlap over Abigail's pointing out to him that Hannibal knew exactly how to cut him. Wanted him alive... Wanted him to live and ache and hurt and bear his scar.

And maybe Hannibal knows exactly the incision to make to get into his heart too. What a fucking daunting thought that is. Will squeezes his eyes tighter as Hannibal comes closer and Hannibal begins this new task. It's markedly different with permission and intention and Will is gasping, his foot faltering in its own actions as Hannibal's tongue begins its tease.

"Loving you is a bloodsport," Will says, his voice thick with emotion as his hands clasp tight in Hannibal's hair. He can't look, but he can feel Hannibal suck him and it's the kind of worship he's not able to face.

* * *

This has gone beyond a simple night drinking. Hannibal doubts very much that there is any way that Chiyoh could be left in the dark regarding what it is they're currently doing. Will's voice - while somewhat hushed - carries in the room when he forgets himself, and yet Hannibal cannot bring himself to mind. The sound of his pleasure, the _knowledge_ that Will is allowing this if only for a moment, is enough to slice down through the layers of Hannibal's skin to imprint itself deep on his very core. He is not a man to often feel raw and yet Will Graham leaves him flayed in nearly every sense. Will knows his importance. Will knows that Hannibal wants him. Perhaps this is all an elaborate ruse even yet, and yet Hannibal can't bring himself to believe it.

There had been no deception in the arousal in Will's eyes when he'd realized what Hannibal would do for him. His response to Hannibal's anger should be worrying and yet Hannibal feels only a strong thrill race through him at the knowledge that Will can find some measure of comfort in what is arguably a horrid memory. Bedelia will die, and while Hannibal had been considering it for some time, he no longer wishes to pay her the respects he once had. He'd seen fit to let her age once, to let her meat tenderize within her own skin. Now his ire sparks a new flame and he figures that _if_ he deigns to eat her, he has plenty of time to manually tenderize her. Normally he'd not be so garish, but _normally_ people don't manipulate him into almost killing Will Graham.

So Hannibal allows this. He allows whatever this is, whatever Will intends it to be. He cares little that the movement of Will's foot stops, as the gasps that Will lets out instead are nothing shy of exquisite. Now he's the cause of them. Hannibal's groan is soft, barely a whisper in the back of his throat, and yet some of his teasing loses its edge as his focus sharpens. Fingers tighten almost rudely in his hair and yet he allows Will to direct him. Hannibal eases closer, enough to press the arch of Will's foot against the damp patch on the front of his slacks, and Hannibal rolls his hips with a soft, punched-out breath as he sucks.

It takes him only a moment to realize that Will isn't looking at him but Hannibal forgives him that. He shudders and simply doubles his efforts, working at the soft skin of Will's cock until it begins to slowly, almost reluctantly fill out on his tongue. That simple knowledge, that Will is finding further pleasure with him, sends a hot wave of sensation through him that curls like fire within his belly. Hannibal grips at Will's hips with the same level of intensity that Will grips at his hair, and he works until he can feel the weight of Will's cock thickening on his tongue. Will's words, spoken hotly while his eyes are shielded, are enough to almost throw Hannibal for a loop. He hesitates only for a moment and then fights Will's grip in his hair just so he can reply.

"Considering the blood I have spilled in your name, I would agree," Hannibal manages, his voice rougher. He doesn't hesitate as he leans back in, but there's more fire in his eyes as he hollows his cheeks and sucks properly.

 _Love_ , Will had said. The concept is almost terrifying.

* * *

Hannibal's fingers dig into his skin and hold him against the wall. Will struggles a little just to feel the strength there, but Hannibal's sly mouth is far more distracting than Will could have ever imagined. Each flick of a tongue is a delicious tease, the sucking more than exquisite. Slowly but surely he feels himself grow hard _inside_ Hannibal's mouth. He's never had a blowjob that started with him being soft, but there's just something so damn intimate about it. Will's unsure if he wants to try and understand the strange appeal. Maybe because it's Hannibal, Hannibal on his knees, Hannibal starting with cleaning his come off...

But it is rude to be doing anything sexual like this in a shared common space. Will is too far gone to be concerned about Chiyoh's feelings on the matter and Hannibal is right here with him. Hannibal is being discourteous too. Will is aware that he's essentially getting his way here and it causes a petulant pleasure to join the other feelings, sliding underneath the physical sensations and elevating them somehow. It's possibly something else to be concerned over because Will has a feeling that he's going to try and push this, to test the waters.

Is he testing the waters now? Will hasn't said the three most damning words of 'I love you' but he's implied it.

' _Loving you is a bloodsport.'_ Christ, he really uttered those words... Loving _Hannibal_. It's daunting, but Will knows it's the truth. It's been stamped on his heart, an impression of Hannibal's hand having touched him, changed him. Hannibal's hands have enacted such violence and cruelty, but also delicately tended to his wounds. Hannibal is the maker of chaos, his hands pulling the strings and fingers pushing the buttons, a conductor leading his own orchestra through the swell of a composition. He tears Will open, but his hands also hold him together, and Will feels like he can shake here but not fall apart. He's not going to lose himself.

(He may shake, pieces of himself flaking off, but Hannibal's hands ensure that he keeps his shape, one that fits with Hannibal...)

Hannibal's tone is breathy and low. Will's eyes open. He can't help but need to look down now. "You've...you've killed for pleasure," Will remarks, his own voice thick with emotion and arousal. "Going to kill for love, now?" Will remembers his own task as he moves his foot again, rubbing against Hannibal's clothed erection.

* * *

There's no way for Hannibal to know whether or not Will is being honest in this, just as there's no way that he can tell whether or not Will is being _dishonest_. Will Graham is not a man simple to read in the ways that count. He's a reckless man, constantly fighting his own desires and reworking the ones he already has. He's not a man to make his decisions after a long, well thought out discussion. He's a reckless creature, prone to leaping and snapping on instinct, and so the concept of _love_ may only be in this one fleeting moment and it will fade as the minutes pass. Perhaps Will's opinion will change once this is over and done with. Perhaps it won't. All Hannibal knows is that for this moment, he has Will precisely where he wants him, and he intends to make a lasting impression.

Will's fingers are a perfect grip in his hair and Hannibal silently marvels at the weight of Will's cock on his tongue. Already the scent of arousal is rising. Perhaps Will is sensitive after being worked into arousal again so soon but Hannibal hardly minds. He hears no protests. Instead he hears only soft praises in the form of labored breaths and he hears soft sounds that could easily be compared to moans if looked at closely enough. Hannibal's lips move further down Will's cock as he works, testing his own limits, his own tolerance, but he's hardly concerned. His jaw will ache, or his lips will feel flushed, or his throat will be raw after and he cares little. _This_ is what he wants.

So Hannibal sucks. He's careful, building up his own tolerance, mindful of his teeth as he works Will's cock in deeper, sucking back with long, slow movements before again moving in. It's akin to sampling Will's taste; he needs not rush it to enjoy it. And so when Will's hands grip tighter in his hair and he manages to grit out his response, Hannibal looks up at him, the weight of Will's cock on his tongue enough to hold it for the moment. Hannibal isn't certain he's killed for pleasure. At least not in the way some have. Yet he cannot deny Will's assessment just the same. He may not have killed for pleasure, but he's already killed for love, and the knowledge burns. Hannibal's eyes darken - be it in anger or arousal - but before he can draw back and say anything else, Will's foot begins to move again and Hannibal lets out a soft, punched-out sound at the feeling.

Maybe he's not the one in control here, but that doesn't mean that he can't still push. So push he does. Hannibal presses Will back harder against the wall and begins to move his head pointedly. The gentle, teasing flick of his tongue over Will's skin fades into Hannibal molding its shape to Will's cock as he sucks harder. He's slow at first, but it doesn't last. If this is the only chance Will gives him, he _will_ be memorable. He'd like to learn the way Will likes it best, which means experimenting. Yet even so, Hannibal makes a soft, affirmative sound from around Will's cock, answering his last question without words, as he hardly needs them.

* * *

It _is_ sensitive. Will's never had this experience before, but it seems appropriate that Hannibal would be gifting him with it. More first times courtesy of Hannibal. More memories being created for him to look back on and wonder just what the hell he was even doing... More proof that his old self has been left by the wayside. A willing extinction of certain parts. He remembers thinking of himself as shedding skin, flakes of indecision and judgment falling to his feet. Will can also remember the scales being removed from his eyes in regard to Hannibal as the Chesapeake Ripper, that sly Devil. Like smoke, Gideon had surmised. He wonders if there will be more reveals for the both of them, or are they closer to baring it all? Exposed, chest cracked opened, their inner workings and functions able to be observed and studied, picked at. Will's pretty sure he doesn't want to know the results of the autopsy their love would reveal.

Hannibal is no mere sadist and when Will says he's killed for pleasure, he doesn't mean it in the conventional way, no. Hannibal has often killed simply because he _could,_ because he's at the top of the food chain.There's an aspect of enjoyment in ridding one's own world of rudeness too. Hannibal doesn't care about the world on a whole, but his immediate surroundings? Hannibal is finicky enough to take matters into his own hands. And then into his kitchen, and from his kitchen to his own mouth and then offer it up for other's to eat as well. One sharing cannibal...

Will can remember Hannibal's appraising eyes as they ate 'long pig' they'd prepared as lomo saltado together. He's never especially _liked_ being watched. Will's always held disdain for pairs of eyes following and judging him, but Hannibal... Now he can't help but remember all the times Hannibal had watched him eat. It started with a breakfast scramble in a hotel room... The mongoose under the stairs, he'd been called. Is he still that creature? There's a threat that Hannibal could attempt to domesticate him, to slip on the collar and leash, but Hannibal doesn't want a pet. Hannibal wants an equal and for the first time in Hannibal's life Will is near that ideal. It's both exhilarating and daunting. (Expectations can bring disappointment and often did in Will's experience.)

His foot begins to move and Hannibal pushes him harder against the wall. Will likes that show of force far too much and he bites his lip to try and hold back the moan that wants to escape. His cock aches, steadily hardening and growing thick from Hannibal's skilled mouth. He feels hot and sweaty and he knows he's going to leave a wet spot on the wall. And then Hannibal hums his answer and Will loses it a little. The vibration feels really fucking amazing. Will gasps, his hands loosening in Hannibal's hair to stroke through instead. His hands are shaking. Will is staring down as Hannibal begins to suck in earnest.

"I like when you've watched me... watched me eat in the past," Will all but babbles out. It should come as no surprise to Hannibal as he mentioned what had happened after the ortolans, but this is going one step further as Hannibal had feed him _people_.

* * *

This is intimacy. Sucking Will's cock from soft to the way it lies hard and thick along his tongue is one aspect of the situation, but beyond that is the way Will keeps looking at him. As thrilling as the taste and feel of Will's cock in his mouth is, there's something even more gratifying in the way Will looks at him, like he's still amazed that this is happening, like he can't fathom that Hannibal would allow this. Hannibal watches as the flushed skin of Will's lip is once again tugged between his teeth and he watches the pleasure curl insidious and tempting over Will's expression. Hannibal's own gaze is open, but he does make a point to keep himself as contained as he can. His own pleasure is mounting despite the limited contact. It's still contact, it's still Will, and as he presses Will back against the wall and feels Will's answering gasp, a curl of vicarious pleasure slides through him.

Hannibal hums and the grip in his hair loosens just enough for Will to stroke his fingers back through it. The sensation sends prickles of sensation down his spine and Hannibal's next breath leaves him on a soft sound as he rolls his hips against the friction that Will's foot offers him. It's not much, but it's a steady, grinding pressure not from his own hand, and the rest of his senses are awash in everything Will Graham. Hannibal focuses on this man, on his scent, on each soft breath or groan, on the way Will's hands shake and his thighs tremble, and on the way Will watches him like the consequences would be dire were he to look away. It's an expression bordering on exultant and Hannibal feels it like a physical touch, like silk sliding over his skin, like the warmth from a burning hearth settling deep into his bones.

There's no hesitation in the way Hannibal sucks then. His hands grip at Will's hips hard enough to likely leave small, pinpoint finger-tip bruises on his skin, and he holds Will back against the wall to offer a different kind of support. Hannibal's lips slide over Will's skin again and again, the velvet skin beneath moving with him as he does what he can to give Will pleasure. He sees the need etched into Will's posture, sees the way he stares down, lips lax, eyes heavy-lidded in pleasure. And when Will manages to speak, Hannibal slows just enough for the words to properly register. It's nothing that Will hasn't mentioned before (in a sense; what Will had said about the ortolans is still fresh and heated in his mind) but there's a cadence to Will's tone, something soft and whispered, like a guilty secret in the dark. Hannibal needs only a moment to connect the dots, and when he does, he suddenly needs to close his eyes as his hips give a small jerk against the sole of Will's foot, his cock leaking in his slacks.

He's never gotten anything sexual out of eating human flesh. To him, they are little more than cattle. Yet hearing that Will had liked it when Hannibal had watched him is enough to send desire racing through him. Hannibal takes in a quick breath that is full of Will's scent and the breath releases on a soft moan, something he could help, perhaps, but doesn't wish to. He draws away only a moment to grind out Will's name under his breath, then rubs his cheek along the length of Will's cock, slick with saliva and residual come.

"And you would like to have me watch you again?" He asks lowly. "I would do it if you wished. I take great joy in watching you, Will. Even now."

Especially now.

Hannibal's lip curls just enough to make his desire clear, and when he takes Will's cock back into his mouth, Hannibal slides his hands back. His thumbs come to rest against Will's hipbones but his hands splay back, fingers resting low on the line of Will's lower back. He squeezes his fingers, feeling the give of Will's flesh, and draws him in a little closer, taking him in deeper. Hannibal feels the press of Will's cock against his soft palate, feels the answering tightness of his own throat, and pushes past his body's brief limitations. Hannibal sucks his way back, tongue pressing and rubbing against the underside of Will's cock as he goes. And through it all, Hannibal looks up at Will.

* * *

They're moving a little too fast, their stride quick as they travel across some rickety bridge to the other side. What the other side holds is unclear. Will's sure he knows better. Some part, at least. Hannibal _definitely_ knows better, but he's along for the crazy ride too, desperate to indulge. They're both parched, thirsty, and gulping the water down greedily lest any drops escape from their cupped hands. He's only kissed Hannibal once. And since then the only touching has been the wound care -- not cold and detached, but done out of necessity. None of this is a necessity, but it feels like the introduction to a drug he'd been _considering_ but hadn't fully decided on trying yet.

Will's decided now. Some part, at least. Some fucking part is just going for this act of depraved intimacy. Will's sharing his dirty little secrets too and it feels like he's showing his cards early, but it's too late to turn them around now. And isn't it just a bit cathartic to confess to Hannibal? To give a voice to the thoughts that ricochet around in his head? He no longer has to keep them contained and silenced and it's an honest relief. (Seen and _heard_ now?) Maybe this is just another form of therapy. Just another perk of Hannibal fucking Lecter and Will is collecting in on it.

His foot is against Hannibal's cock, moving when he can manage it. He can feel wetness, warmth and hardness there. It's still a bit of a shock that he's doing such a thing and that Hannibal _allowing_ it. It probably shouldn't be because he knows they're desperate men here and Will wants _more_ , god he wants more. It's recklessness surging up that he wants Hannibal to push him around. He wants Hannibal's hands around his throat again (but if he falls unconscious for Hannibal to be there after). He wants Hannibal to continually shove him against the wall. He's admitted delicate and dark things, and now he feels like the only course of action is something rougher and violent to counteract it.

When Hannibal pulls back the fucking sight and feel of him rubbing his cheek along his now hard dick has an anguished sound caught in Will's throat. Hannibal's words threaten to undo him because Will knows he wants Hannibal to watch him like that. And Will would like to think that Hannibal has somehow corrupted him, but he knows that isn't the case. Hannibal is the catalyst, but there's always been that appreciation and intrigue for darker things. Hannibal doesn't taint him, Hannibal simply highlights his own shadows. Hannibal watches him now as he takes him back in. Will almost grimaces at the spike of pleasure at Hannibal's throat tightening. It's too much now. He doesn't want to be still and only be able to touch Hannibal's hair.

"Fuck, st-stop," Will grits out and Hannibal immediately complies, pulling away. Will takes a steadying breath. Despite the protest of his shoulder, Will's hands clutch onto the fabric of the shoulder of Hannibal's shirt and yanks up. "Come here," Will beckons.

* * *

If Hannibal focuses closely, he can see the fissures of Will's armor beginning to widen. It's been rusted over the last eight months, a steady drip in a quiet room, echoing out as it wears away at the shell Will has erected around himself. Hannibal can almost hear the steady _drip, drip_ echoing off of the walls, can almost hear the groan of metal as Will's armor begins to weaken and peel back. It's an emergence of a different sort, and as Hannibal watches, he silently marvels in the picture that Will makes. Perhaps this snapshot in their timeline isn't perfect - there's tension and uncertainty and rage and a bitter hope still climbing at the walls - but Will is as stunning now as he's ever been, perhaps more so. He's rapt with attention as Will begins to squirm, as sensitivity begins to war with need and the two of them multiply into something bordering on too much. While Hannibal has no guarantee that Will wishes him to stop, he gives his all in those few precious seconds before sensitivity climbs higher.

His knees ache on the ground, though the tightness and sweet throb of his own arousal is far more prevalent. The constant shifting motion has his back sore, but Hannibal doesn't care. Will is his focus. This is his turn to be given a rare gift, but _he_ wants it, and he'll not squander it for as long as Will permits him to have it. Yet the more Hannibal moves, the more he sucks, the more he realizes the moment is likely coming to an end. Will's sounds are beautiful in anguish and Hannibal wishes he could frame this moment, wishes he could freeze-frame it for the future, to live in something so deceptively complicated.

But he can't. As he kneels there, he catches sight of the grimace, sees the way Will's expression pinches, so the request to stop is not unheard of. Hannibal immediately draws back with a sound he wouldn't classify as dignified, but he hardly thinks Will is in the proper mindset to care. He looks up at him instead, breathing hard, feeling the pressure against his cock but _Will_ is his focus. He's even more in Hannibal's focus when Will reaches down for his shirt and gives it an insistent yank. The action pulls Hannibal's shirt tight across his back for a moment, enough for him to grunt, but he doesn't fail to miss that Will is using his shoulder equally. Hannibal makes a small sound - a cut-off grunt - and then immediately complies.

His knees protest as he pulls himself up off of the ground, and he moves his hands away from Will's hips. Hannibal immediately wishes more than he can take for himself. Will's lips are bitten red and swollen and he's aware his own must look the same, only _more_ flushed and slick. The desire to lean in and catch Will's lips in a proper, deep kiss is almost overwhelming but Hannibal holds himself back. He can almost feel the collar biting into his throat as he strains against the metaphorical leash they both hold. Instead Hannibal merely breathes deeper and leans in closer. His arms move up and he presses one forearm to the wall beside Will's head, the other tentatively coming to rest on Will's hip. Hannibal glances between them, where Will's cock is thick and slick and heavy between his thighs, and his own is straining against the front of his slacks. It's an intriguing image.

"Tell me what you need," Hannibal commands, his voice raw from the press of Will's cock but no less insistent.

* * *

Will knows that none of this has been especially kind to the healing brand on Hannibal's back. Yanking on Hannibal's shirt isn't good for it either but Will also knows that, shy of pulling a knife on himself, Hannibal is going to let him get away with it. Just how much, he wonders. Just how much has their thread wrapped around Hannibal's neck now? Fashioned into both a collar and leash... Heel, boy, this way, boy... Because Hannibal _obeys_ him and gets up off his knees. Of course he does. Hannibal stands, somehow managing to look composed, but Will knows different. They're not composed men. They're desperate men reaching and taking, arms stretched, fingers grazing.

Desperate because Will is standing with his fucking dick out in the dining room, leaning up against a wall and Hannibal's own erection is trapped, but there's a noticeable wet spot on the front. Desperate because Hannibal's words sounds like a demand, but they're also a plea for instruction. He is Hannibal's ortolan right now, Hannibal must handle him carefully. Hannibal doesn't want to scare him, doesn't want to crush him, but careful is the last thing Will wants now. God, humans were delicate. Muscles atrophy, bones break and skin tears, but isn't the heart a resilient thing? He shouldn't love, not after all the pain Hannibal's caused, but he does. Hannibal shouldn't treat him tenderly, but he has.

But Will doesn't want it. Not now. Will's eyes track down to Hannibal's mouth, slick with spit and probably pre-come, lips swollen from the effort of the blowjob. He shivers and licks his own bottom lip. He wants to kiss Hannibal's mouth, but that action seems far too intimate for the moment.

"I want you to choke me," Will says instead. His left hand comes to rest on Hannibal's wrist, pulling Hannibal's hand from his hip and placing it under his throat. He'd been choked out in the catacombs. Choked and laid gently to rest, but left. Hannibal isn't going to leave him now though. Will leans forward, choosing to nuzzle at Hannibal's cheek before whispering closer to his ear, "Jerk me off at the same time."

* * *

For a moment, Hannibal believes that Will is going to ask for a kiss. The glance down to his lips is slow and the ache of holding himself steady increases substantially. Despite his desire to lean in and kiss Will properly, it isn't what Will is currently after. The admission - that Will wants to be _choked_ \- is enough to draw Hannibal out of the moment just enough to realize this request isn't something to approve on a whim. He blinks once, then again a few times as he draws in a deep, slow, steadying breath. He can still taste Will's come and his scent lingers enticingly between them, but Hannibal is aware that this is not something to take lightly. He makes himself focus, though he doesn't protest as Will reaches a hand down and his fingers wrap around Hannibal's wrist. He's quiet as Will slowly lifts his hand up, and when his own fingers touch the heated skin of Will's throat, slightly slick with sweat, Hannibal feels an answering shiver slide through him.

He can feel the quickness of Will's pulse under his fingers. Hannibal slowly situates his hand in such a way that he follows the line of Will's carotid, feeling the steady, quick pulse that seems to race quicker under his touch. Despite his distraction, he's no fool. Despite how badly he wishes to drop back down to his knees and resume what he'd been doing, he doesn't. Instead he wets his lips and focuses his attention on Will's throat, recalling the way Will's pulse had slowed under his hand back in the catacombs. His skin tingles with the memory of the sensation of Will struggling against him, but it's his heart that pangs when he remembers leaving Will on the floor of the catacombs, wrapped carefully in Hannibal's jacket.

He's not forgotten Will's attempt to choke himself, and there's every possibility that this is another instance where Will is aching to punish himself - without the knife this time - but there's no hesitation in Will's voice. His eyes are clear despite his pupils being blown with lust. He looks as present as he has recently, and as Hannibal's grip tightens on Will's throat just enough to feel, he reasons that at least if he does this, Will won't be in danger. This isn't what he'd imagined, but it doesn't mean it doesn't thrill him. If this is what Will needs, it's something Hannibal can grant. As is the additional request Will makes. Hannibal looks down between them again, his own breath catching, and he's not ashamed to admit that the scratch of Will's stubble against his cheek and the whisper in his ear is what eventually makes his decision for him.

"If that is what you wish." His voice is rough, affected, but still calm. "Kick at my ankle if you wish to stop and you are unable to speak. How far would you like me to go, Will?"

Hannibal eases in closer, bracing Will back against the wall with more than just his hands on Will's hips. Instead Hannibal shifts his hand below Will's Adam's apple, where his touch will be more comfortable and more effective. He flexes his fingers, finding his hand a proper position, and then he carefully begins to exert pressure, taking great care to avoid one of the main arteries going through Will's neck while still restricting everything else. He's slow, a slower version of the way he'd held Will in the catacombs, but this time Hannibal is close enough to breathe Will's air, to look down into his eyes, to admire the flush to his face and the sweat on his skin. He waits only until his touch is solidified and then he reaches down between them, his other hand wrapping around Will's cock, still slick with precome and saliva. Hannibal strokes, slow at first to readjust to the sensation, and then slightly quicker, aiming to give Will exactly what he'd asked for.

* * *

Hannibal will listen to him. Hannibal will do it. Hannibal will choke him. Will knows this. Will knows that it's a little dangerous to be courting something he has obvious trauma about, but it's not like he's asking Hannibal to caress him with a saw blade. Their evening is growing increasingly reckless, but Hannibal is a doctor and he knows how far to go. If he went too far... Hannibal could save him. Hannibal _would_ save him. Or at least try. There's a sick fascination that rises up within Will at the idea of Hannibal reviving. Pazzi's accusation floats to the surface like a bloated corpse in a river - _'you are already dead, aren't you?'_ \- and Will has a brief flare of panic. The memory of himself rising from an autopsy table, the Y-incision stitched up on his chest, missing an arm and then him walking among the gravestones at the Lecter estate--

No, he's not dead. He's very much alive right now. Hannibal's hand moves to his throat, fingers warm and tempting. Hannibal obliges him, even though Will can sense the indecision over his requested activity. Hannibal obeying him is terrifying in a way. Maybe arousal helps ease Hannibal into this, beaten down by desire and Will withholding touch. There will be no gloves this time. He has the gloves still, and the jacket. Hannibal won't be taking them back. He thinks of Abigail asking them to reenact the crime -- he could ask Hannibal...

Hannibal's words pull him back in. His tone causes Will to flush more, heat pooling low. God, he wants to hear Hannibal talk dirty to him. He also wants to hear Hannibal get off. Both prospects feel foreign but hold appeal. He makes mental note of the safety measure Hannibal has given him -- to kick at his feet if he needs it stop. The question has his eyebrows pulling down in thought. How far...

"Not unconscious, I guess," is all Will can think to answer with. He does want to get off, after all.

And then Hannibal's hand positions itself properly on his neck. Will knows Hannibal doesn't want to do any permanent damage. The increase in pressure is gradual, but there's still a spike of fear that shoots through Will at the sensation. It's slower than what Hannibal had done underneath the chapel. He can see Hannibal watching him and that trumps any distress.

They watch each other. Now that he's mentioned being watched multiple times, Will feels hot and exposed. He’s eyes widen as the air flow begins to lessen. Hannibal's other hand closes around his dick again and Will jerks. It feels better than he could have imagined. In between his gasps for air he moans loudly. He doesn't care if Chiyoh hears now. He writhes into the touch that speeds up along his cock, both hands come to grip along Hannibal's forearm, but not in an attempt to get him to stop is pull away, no, but to steady himself. It's a strange mix of pleasure and fear and Will is surprised to find that he's actually close.

* * *

The danger of choking is crushing the trachea or fracturing the hyoid bone in the throat. Hannibal can feel it against the top of his hand as he squeezes and he's careful to avoid it. He's killed like this before, a forceful press, not reckless enough to fracture needlessly unless his victim forced his hand, but he's felt the life drain from a body like this before. Special Agent Katz had died like that before Hannibal had bled her dry to showcase without the bruising marring her throat in death. It makes Hannibal wonder if this is truly a good idea, given how fragile Will's psyche has been lately. Yet despite the sudden rush of fear that Hannibal can smell between them, Will seems in control of himself as he begins to squeeze. There's no reckless abandon or ambivalence. That he's afraid is a good sign. Hannibal's grip tightens slowly, allowing less and less air for every few gasps that escape Will's throat. He watches closely as sympathetic heat rushes to Will's face, as the blood rushes to his cheeks, filling them out in a deep flush.

Between them, Hannibal's hand moves quick, matching the pace he'd been using while his lips had been wrapped around Will's cock. He angles his strokes upwards so that he can rub his thumb quick and fleeting along the sensitive underside of Will's cock, and then again along the slit, stroking his thumb over sensitive skin and then carefully twisting his wrist on every few strokes to add more sensation in. Through it all, Hannibal watches Will. He watches the way his pupils blow with greater arousal, listens to the sudden loud moan that shatters the air before Hannibal quiets it with his hand, and he's aware that Chiyoh likely now knows to stay where she is. Perhaps he should care, but he doesn't. He can't. Not when Will is asking this of him.

Hannibal strokes quickly as his other hand slowly tightens, cutting off more air, restricting blood-flow just enough to gift Will with the dizzying, lightheaded feeling he seems to want so badly. There's a darker twist in Hannibal's stomach, something that _enjoys_ seeing this. He watches Will jerk, watches him writhe, watches his expression pinch in a mix of desperation and what could be pain, and it stokes something hot along his nerves. Yet this is no longer for him. The way Will's hands come to grip along his forearm say that much. Will clutches at him, undoubtedly able to feel the corded muscle in Hannibal's forearm and the way it flexes as he squeezes Will's throat tighter. Arousal and fear intermingle, and as he swipes his thumb over the head of Will's cock and gathers precome, he realizes that Will is truly enjoying this. Perhaps it's simply sex. Perhaps it's cathartic. Perhaps it's a memory being overwritten. Hannibal cares little so long as it doesn't break Will.

Yet there is a long span of time between 'conscious' and 'unconscious', and Will had merely told him to avoid the latter. He does. But when he can sense the scent of arousal _so_ strong in the air and can hear the deep, desperate sounds that try to escape Will's throat, Hannibal shivers, checks his hand's position on Will's throat, and then squeezes tighter. It's enough to cut Will's air off completely, but before a visceral panic can truly set in, he leans in close enough to _almost_ kiss Will, but doesn't.

"Trust me," he says, somewhat breathlessly, and quickens his strokes, using his hand on Will's throat and his hip against Will's to brace him against the wall. "A lack of oxygen makes pleasure that much more intense, and I want to see you fall apart, knowing that this is what you've asked of me."

* * *

He remembers seeing Hannibal's gloved hand in the abdominal cavity of Silvestri's last victim. In the back of an ambulance, sleeved rolled up, Hannibal had saved a life, had stopped the bleeding from the botched kidney removal. Will had watched him then, perhaps seeing Hannibal in a different light as he'd became slowly more involved, the cogs in his head turning. Will feels the muscles of Hannibal's forearm under his hands. Hannibal exerts a controlled amount of pressure and Will has to marvel at the restraint it must take. Saving lives, taking lives. Lives snuffed out prematurely. Lives that would be extinguished (Bedelia).

Sex and violence. Love and pain. Par for the course, really. Par for them. Hannibal's hand works his dick ruthlessly. Each stroke has pleasure climbing, Will's pulse racing as the threat of violence caresses him. Hannibal could kill him right now but Hannibal won't. The list of Hannibal's victims is rather long. Longer than the FBI knows about, surely. Will hadn't spent too much time going over il Mostro's file.

Surgeon's hands. Killer's hands. Lover's hands. But Hannibal is more than the sum of what his hands can all do. Will had told Hannibal that he would like to kill him with his hands. The idea still appeals in a dark insidious way. Would Hannibal be surprised? Would a part of Hannibal feel like he deserved it? Will can't think of a world without Hannibal Lecter in it, though. As much as Hannibal has hurt him, as much as has been the cataclysmic event in his life, Will chooses this madness. He chooses Hannibal. If Hannibal were to die - by his hand or not - Will knows he would be joining him. It's not even that scary of a thought. There's no normal life left for him. How could he _do_ normal now? Now, when he's asked for this and Hannibal is choking and jerking him off -- giving it to him.

The grip intensifies, enough to now cut off his his air flow. His own hands squeeze Hannibal's forearm in concern, but Will does not kick at Hannibal's feet. Hannibal's face moves in, but their lips do not connect. (There's a pang of frustration at being denied.) But Hannibal's words are like a sweet caress of their own. _'Trust me... I want to see you fall apart, knowing that this is what you've asked of me.'_ Will doesn't know if he'll trust Hannibal later tonight or tomorrow or the next day, but for right now, he does trust Hannibal. Will is going to spread his wings and hope he's mended enough to fly. He'll trust that he won't plummet to the ocean like a rock. Hannibal's hand pumps at his cock and Will begins to shake. It's a curious sensation, the lightheadedness coupled with the excitement and mounting pleasure. It doesn't take Will very much time at all before his entire body is quivering in anticipation and then a particular pass over his dick has him spilling over Hannibal's hand and likely on his clothes.

* * *

This is one of the biggest risks that Hannibal has taken, and in a sense, it's both fitting and disappointing. There had been a time, almost a year ago, where he believes he would have given Will a great deal. Partners in crime, perhaps, someone to share his life with. Perhaps it would have grown into something sexual, or maybe it would have simply remained as it was, a careful, intellectual and spiritual courtship, everything Hannibal had intended once he'd realized he couldn't let this man die. This is not what he'd pictured. When he'd let himself imagine this, it had been intimate, a shared space, conversation over dinner, debates regarding Will's killer of the week. Debating morality and mortality like they'd been doing it for decades instead of mere months. Will had effortlessly pulled the wool over his eyes; for the first time, Hannibal had lost himself to a hope and he'd suffered the bitterness of heartbreak.

So now, standing tall, one hand wrapped around Will's throat and the other stroking his cock quickly, Hannibal looks down at his weakness and watches the curl of pleasure and panic bloom into an amalgamation of the two. If this is all he's granted now, he'll take it. It's a risk; this could backfire spectacularly. Will could balk at his actions mere seconds from now, perhaps mere minutes. He could lock himself away, could struggle with the weight of what he's done, of what he's asked for. And yet Hannibal is unwilling to stop. It's half-desperation and half-arousal that control him now, and the desire to see Will's expression caught in agonized pleasure once more is already overwhelming. Will Graham has been his addiction for what feels like an eternity.

He can feel the moment Will begins to lose himself. His pulse is quick and then begins to slow. It's still rapid under his touch, but Hannibal feels the tightness in Will's muscles begin to fade into something more accepting, more relaxed, more focused on the increased pleasure. He watches Will walk the knife's edge of his own pleasure, reads the desperation in every quick flicker of something across Will's eyes, and when Will begins to shake, Hannibal says nothing. He merely hums a soft noise that sounds both encouraging and aroused and strokes quicker, drawing Will to the edge under his own power for the first time.

There's a sharp note of something in Hannibal's eyes when Will comes. He feels indulgent, covetous, and seeing the pleasure wash over Will is an experience. He watches the way Will's eyelashes kiss his cheeks, notes the pinch to his brow and the almost-agonized twist of his lips as his hips move and his cock jerks in Hannibal's hand. He strokes steadily, slowing down ever so slightly to properly give Will what he needs, and he marvels in the spill of heat over his own skin and the way Will shakes apart against him. Perhaps he does push it, drawing Will's pleasure out as his own arousal gnaws helplessly at the back of his mind. His hand remains at Will's throat for a few seconds longer than strictly necessary, but he knows he has this controlled.

And as Will shakes and shudders, Hannibal murmurs, "trust me," softly under his breath, a quiet reminder.

When he feels it would be reckless to push it beyond, Hannibal finally relents and loosens his hold on Will's throat slowly, allowing blood to flow carefully again instead of suddenly rushing and surging ahead. Yet as he relaxes his hold, he does allow Will his breath, silently marveling in the hints of red marks he can already see on Will's throat. Hannibal swallows and looks down at him, and when he does, he only distantly realizes that Will has come all over Hannibal's dress shirt. He can feel the dampness seeping through the fabric, and perhaps he should care, but he doesn't. Instead Hannibal tenderly strokes his fingers over the marks left behind and strokes his thumb slowly over the mess of come at Will's slit.

"Are you all right?"

* * *

Hannibal hadn't been lying. Erotic asphyxiation does enhance the orgasm. Better than Will had honestly anticipated. Will feels an almost odd sense of giddiness (and isn't that fucked up?) but the rush of pleasure is enough to have him both shocked and quivering in Hannibal's hold. It's like the waves crashing against the bluff, the splashes of blood from all three of them bleeding out on Hannibal's floor. His orgasm is wet and warm (he's wet and warm with sweat), cloying almost. A _bloodsport_. _Love._ Will can smell blood on the air. Bedelia DuMaurier's, to be specific. She's going to die. Will knows it and it only adds to the intensity.

While Hannibal had had his own ideas how such sexual activity may come to be - how _they_ might come to be - Will hadn't really. Desire for Hannibal had been dealt with denial, repression, and then moments of weakness where Will had been so pent up that he furiously jerked off and let his mind think of whatever and whoever it wanted. It had been out of desperation that he'd sailed across an ocean for a man who left him surrounded in carnage and burdened by guilt.

But he hears the lull of ' _trust_ _me_ ' from Hannibal and Hannibal could be the fucking snake from the Jungle Book for all he cares, but Will does trust him. It's like the moment in the kitchen where he grasps onto Hannibal instead of trying to push him away. His body fights for air, an instinctual urge he can't help, but Will doesn't attempt to pull Hannibal's hand off his throat. The burst of pleasure is is enough to have him blinking rapidly, his hands clenching and unclenching on Hannibal's forearm. He can feel Hannibal's hunger, an insatiable formidable thing, barely sated by being the cause of Will's current orgasm. (It should be daunting, but it's really not.) The grip slowly relaxes at his throat and Will gasps for air. Through glazed eyes he can make out Hannibal glancing down between them. He knows they're both a mess, come over his dick and Hannibal's hand at the very least. He barely registers the caress of Hannibal's fingers against his throat, but Will does jolt at the sensitivity of Hannibal's thumb over the tip of his cock.

"Yeah, yeah," he mumbles out. "More than all right."

His left hand unwraps from Hannibal's forearm and comes to rest on the still very obvious erection Hannibal is sporting underneath his pants. Will rubs hard. Will rubs blatantly.

"Your turn," he says and it's with clear intent in his eyes that he looks up at Hannibal's face. While he's high on the afterglow, he's going to ensure Hannibal comes too. The consequences...? The consequences will be dealt with after. "Actually, let me get on my knees," Will then blurts out. Even Steven... or maybe he just wants to feel more diminished again. Eye to eye with Hannibal... He needs a break.

* * *

Hannibal's question is rough with desire of his own, but he makes no move to act. He has always been a man above his own desires, or at least he had been until Will Graham. Hannibal is quiet as he looks down at Will, as he watches the way his expression pinches slightly following that gentle touch to the slit of his cock. It makes Hannibal wish to push more, to drag Will further down the road of sensitivity, but he doesn't. That isn't a right he's earned, and pushing Will's limits _so_ far is reckless given how little Will knows about his own desires. Mere weeks ago, Will had wished to have it all, to kill with him, to eat with him, to demand both romantic and sexual satisfaction. Now everything is skewed, like a reflection through a shattered mirror. Will's lines are abstract, tilted, and while he _wishes_ his desire lined up like that, there's no guarantee that they do. Will is afraid of him. Will is reckless. Will is self-destructive. Everything he says needs to be taken with a grain of salt. This is all that Hannibal can offer him.

So he doesn't push despite how badly he wants to. Instead Hannibal feels the rapid-fire pulse against his fingers and rubs his fingers together, spreading the slick of Will's come over his own skin. He's disappointed to have not gotten Will off _his_ way, but he cannot deny a deep satisfaction at how intense Will's pleasure had been. Will had looked almost agonized, the pleasure had been so intense, and Hannibal still adores the realization. Yet despite this, despite Will's breathlessness and Hannibal's closeness, there's nothing in him that is expecting Will to reciprocate.

His knees threaten to give out when Will reaches between them and his hand finds Hannibal's cock. It's through his slacks and the fabric beneath, but Will's touch is not gentle, and pleasure curls up like smoke through Hannibal's veins. His breath catches on a small gasp of surprise, but there's no denying the hunger in Will's eyes when their gazes lock. Hannibal feels a shiver carve a path through him, painful and perfect, and though a part of him wonders at the timing, he still nods.

"Yes," Hannibal says, when Will requests to be on his knees, heat floods through him. Hannibal swallows and then nods again. "Yes, all right. As you will."

He moves his hand away from Will's throat with great reluctance and fights the urge to grind in against the pressure of Will's hand. Instead Hannibal braces his forearm against the wall beside Will's head and watches him closely, a similar hunger in his own eyes as he looks. He intends to watch Will drop to his knees in front of him.

* * *

Hannibal had gone to his knees, but Will had done so first. He can still remember the stink of desperation coming from him beneath the Norman chapel, going to his knees for Hannibal, his face nuzzling at Hannibal's crotch with his hands on Hannibal's hips. The mantra of ' _don't leave me'_ had rang through his head as Will initiated their first blatant sexual activity as a shameless attempt to not be discarded. It hadn't worked. Hannibal had seen right through it. But this isn't going to be another case of that. He's with Hannibal now, Hannibal saving him from the Verger estate -- fucking carried like a bride through the snow. Patched up and holed away safe. Will knows he's been the one to yank on the thread to pull them close and then draw away, perhaps testing the strength of their string, testing their bond.

Hannibal has remained patient throughout this all. Will believes that desire is likely clouding Hannibal's better reasoning here and he's explicitly taking advantage of it. He doesn't care.

After Hannibal's hand leaves his throat Will takes a few deeper breathes in before pulling his hand away from Hannibal's crotch. With no comment, Will sinks to his knees in front of Hannibal. His boxers and pajama pants are now somewhat tangled up at his ankles, but he pays no mind to them. The floor is cool to his knees. Will's hands slid up to Hannibal's legs, grasping on the sides of his thighs as he processes this undertaking. It's not the first time on his knees in this house, but it's the first time during something so flagrantly sexual and heated between them. Hannibal towers over him and Will doesn't look up. Even now Will feels a magnetic draw to Hannibal. He's had his treat - he's gotten off - but Hannibal hasn't. Will knows he doesn't _have_ to do this, but he wants to.

He's going to.

Will's hands slide up to Hannibal's hips, his fingers hooking into the belt loops as he rises enough to nuzzle at Hannibal's cock with the side of his face. He feels the obvious wet patch through the pants and it causes a thrill to race through him.

"You want to feel my silver tongue?" Will asks, his head tilting up to look at Hannibal. He's bringing back Chiyoh's words. He doesn't necessarily think he's _going_ to partake in giving oral sex, but he'll talk about it. "Tell me how much you want my mouth on you, sucking you off, tasting you."

* * *

Will is still breathless when his knees finally bend and Hannibal watches with rapt attention as Will drops to his knees on the floor. There's no barrier between his knees and the floor and yet Will goes willingly. Hannibal feels somewhat breathless himself as he watches Will move, admiring the almost artful tangle of clothing around his ankles and the picture Will makes. It's a familiar sight in a sense. Will had done this once before in the catacombs, but it had been different, sparking a deep, aching bitterness through his heart as he'd watched Will degrade himself out of sheer desperation. Will had claimed forgiveness, and had immediately prostrated himself out of desperation. He'd dashed their platforms, had intentionally forced his own to fall lower than Hannibal's, and Hannibal had realized how broken this man really was. Will's eyes had been sharp with fear and desperation, his skin pale with cold, his hands grabbing.

Hannibal sees no warning signs this time. When Will looks at him, it's not at his eyes. Will doesn't look up at him; he doesn't force eye contact out of desperation the way he had before. When his hands touch Hannibal's thighs, it's firm but not desperate, and the feeling of Will's fingers curling into the loops of his belt is sheer temptation. Hannibal lets out a slow, rough breath he hadn't intended to, and he feels the slow drag of Will's hands as Will finally leans in and his cheek presses against the front of Hannibal's slacks.

Immediately the situation makes itself clear. Hannibal's once again reminded of how his precome has soaked through the fabric. He can feel the slick, uncomfortable slide inside his underwear, so he knows Will feels the difference. He knows Will is close enough to taste, to smell, and so when Will mentions Chiyoh's previous words, Hannibal closes his eyes and his hand curls into a tight fist against the wall. He can feel Will's come slick in his palm and he shifts just enough to press his forehead against his wrist, breathing in the scent of sex and Will's come so close. It's then, of course, that Will looks up at him, and given the way Hannibal's cock twitches at the sight of Will looking up at him so self-assured and _present_ when he opens his eyes, there's no way that Will can't tell how affected he is. He suspects that it's why Will goes on.

 _'Tell me how much you want my mouth on you, sucking you off, tasting you.'_ Will says, and heat surges through Hannibal's veins even as he doubts that Will has any intention of doing such a thing. In truth, were Will to try, Hannibal isn't entirely sure he'd let him. Talking about it, however? Fantasizing? That he can do.

"You know I do," Hannibal says roughly. In the back of his mind, a mere shade, his anger at Bedelia remains, but the rest of his world is focused on Will. On the way his skin stands out so well against the dark herringbone of Hannibal's slacks, on the prickle of his stubble and the warmth of his skin. Hannibal curls his fist tighter to avoid grabbing his hand in Will's hair, though he cannot entirely resist the way his hips nudge forward.

"You know I want you. I've made it no secret, Will. And you also know I wouldn't push you regardless of what I want. But that... to feel your mouth around me, to watch you taste the evidence of the effect you have on me... I can think of little that I find more arousing." Hannibal draws in a deeper breath, rougher, and he finally reaches down to curl his fingers into Will's hair - his clean hand. "One day, if and when you allow it, I would be thrilled to make a mess of you."

* * *

Like this, he can't quite bask in the afterglow of his second orgasm. Will has a task to complete and he's committed to seeing it through. He doesn't even know how he's exactly going to manage to get Hannibal off, but he'll think of something. His nerves thrum. He smells his own sweat and come. His sweater sticks to him. The floor is hard. He isn't comfortable, but this isn't about comfort. It's about...

What is this about exactly? The scent of blood has faded. The emotional high of retribution against Bedelia has been eclipsed by scrambling toward newfound intimacy and a not-quite love confession from his own mouth. (And God, Will doesn't want to think about that right now...) Hannibal is still angry at her. Underneath that and perhaps more importantly, Will can sense the bitter disappointment that Hannibal feels toward _himself_ for having been manipulated. But dominating everything is Hannibal's fucking investment and interest in _him_ in this very moment. It's like being emotionally penetrated. _Seen,_ no scales to be found on their eyes. They have both proven themselves desperate, reckless men -- perhaps Hannibal more so than himself because Will fucking _knows_ that Hannibal is doing this despite understanding that there is going to be a fall out of some kind. (Consequences for rushing ahead.)

But it's Hannibal watching him, fixated on him. Hannibal here with him and Will not left behind, not discarded. And Christ he _likes_ it more than he should. It almost terrifies Will to acknowledge it. And now he's admitted more than once that he enjoys Hannibal _watching_ him... Just how much has he given away this evening? Pulling off the armor, letting the drawbridge down for Hannibal to come into a fiercely guarded fort. It's dangerous. It's vulnerability--

Hannibal's words are honey that he wants to lick off of the older man's fingers -- sweet and sticky but pleasant. Will knows Hannibal wants him but would never force him and he now has evidence of it. Will's called the shots this evening, or at least been the guide and Hannibal has allowed himself to be moved this way and that way. Will sighs when Hannibal's clean hand comes to pull at his damp hair, the sensation grounding. _'One day, if and when you allow it, I would be thrilled to make a mess of you.'_ It's certainly a loaded statement and immediately images streak into Will's mind: himself with Hannibal's come on his face - himself covered in blood - himself tied up with red rope, straining.

"You have a unique take on dirty talk," Will comments, slightly chagrined. He closes his eyes, running his nose along the line of Hannibal's erection and trying to rein himself back in from certain messy fantasies. Maybe it should feel stranger to be skipping so many steps to get to this point (like a goddamn second kiss maybe?) but it doesn't really. It's just Hannibal. Another facet, albeit one Will himself isn't well versed in..Will opens his eyes, his left hand letting go of the belt loop to reach up and take Hannibal's hand from his hair. He places Hannibal's palm on the wet spot on the crotch. Will's own hand covers Hannibal's, his fingers interlocking.

"Together," Will instructs. He may not want to use his mouth, but he does want to be involved.

* * *

There will be consequences. There is no reality that exists where this goes _well_ immediately after. Will is not a stable man, and Hannibal's patience is not endless; despite how often he considers himself above humanity, he cannot claim to be unaffected. Human beings want. It is the nature of life to crave. A propensity for greed is bred into every living thing, from the meek prey animals to the predators greedily snapping them up. Hunting is made easier by lures, tapping into the base drive. Fishing is as well. Hannibal had perhaps once seen himself above such manipulation, but then the proper bait had been used, and, well... perhaps he is not so unaffected. It hasn't escaped his notice that the bait he'd almost poisoned himself with all those months ago is the same one currently kneeling at his feet. There is no sign that this is a _good_ idea, but likewise, Hannibal is not willing to return this gift so soon.

So he watches. He talks. He tells Will exactly what Will asks to hear, and Hannibal watches the knowledge settle upon him like a gentle weight on his shoulders. Each brush of Will's cheek is hardly enough, but yet it's more than Hannibal has ever let himself hope for. Even were Will to leave him now, he'd not fault him for it. Hannibal may be reckless in this moment, but he is not blind. He cannot ask Will to go against his nature, but provided Will's pain is gifted to him by Hannibal's hands and not his own, he'll allow this.

He's not sure what image his words spark in Will's mind, but Hannibal can both see and hear the effect it has on Will. He's quiet as Will leans in, almost nuzzling against the length of his clothed cock, and Hannibal's breath catches on his next exhale. He feels sensitized, every touch heightened because every touch is Will's.

"Would you have preferred something more vulgar?" Hannibal asks, and there's a breathless hint to his voice as Will lets go of his belt loops and instead goes for Hannibal's hand. He goes quiet, allowing Will to move his hand, and when he feels the dampness of his own precome under his own palm and Will gives that soft instruction, Hannibal lets out a soft sound - clipped but no less wanting - and wets his lips.

"Very well. Together, then."

Aware that Will's attention is on him, Hannibal presses his hand against the outline of his cock and shivers. He doesn't undo his slacks; he knows Will doesn't want him to. Feeling the warmth of Will's hand over his own, Hannibal begins to rub. He moves his hand slowly, sliding the slick fabric over the head of his cock, his breath catching as the low ache of pleasure increases. His senses are full of Will's scent, his warmth. His hand is still slick with Will's come, his forehead still pressed to his own wrist. There is a part of him that wishes to draw this out, but he's aware he doesn't have the time. Will's patience will not be endless, and so Hannibal speeds his hand. He rolls his hips, watching Will, and remembers the way he'd looked when he'd been falling apart. If he focuses, he can still feel Will's throat straining under his hand, can still feel him struggling, can still see the agonized pleasure carved into his features. Hannibal shivers and grinds against his palm, unashamed to want, and there's hunger in his eyes as he watches Will.

"Do... you intend me to make a mess of myself, Will?" He asks, rough, tongue-in-cheek, although he already knows the answer.

* * *

They've held hands before. Will likes Hannibal's hands. Dexterous fingers, soft skin, a firm grip. Hannibal has been both cruel and kind with his hands. Creator and destroyer. He can remember the strange, staggeringly intimate feeling of Hannibal washing his bloody aching knuckles. Will had been tempted to disassociate, to retreat into the safety of his mind -- Hannibal of course had called him out on it. Hannibal wanted him present and experiencing every exquisitely sharp second of it. The moment had imprinted on his mind, a series of snapshots he couldn't tear down and burn like embarrassing Polaroids. There had been so much care in the clinical cleaning and bandaging, more care than Will would have suspected Hannibal capable of. He now knows differently.

The monster isn't quite as monstrous as Will would have first painted Hannibal to be. Broad strokes like that couldn't capture all the intricacies and nuances of Hannibal Lecter. This monster _loves_. Loves _him_ even. Hannibal hasn't said it yet, but Will knows it. Like a creature's hardwired instinct to not eat its own young, Will knows it. Somehow it's a part of him, Hannibal's blade having carved it into his very bones. Altering him forever. He'd been uncertain before, but now knowing Bedelia's part in teasing up the flame to kill him in Florence, he's less fearful of Hannibal. He understands. He _sees_.

Fear and longing. Two sides of a coin, like good and bad. Light and dark. Righteousness and evil. Love and hate. This is a bed of thorns he's making for himself here. He knows that this is all too fast, skipping steps, taking large strides and pulling Hannibal along with him, a dash of shared madness between the two of them. But maybe this is what he needs. Maybe Will needs to see just how far Hannibal would go for him. (But doesn't he already _know_ that Hannibal would go to Hell and back? At the very least he suspects this to be the case, for their red thread bloody and lasting.)

He wouldn't have preferred Hannibal to be more vulgar. He likes Hannibal's refined tongue, the unique spin on dirty talk. He likes his hand covering Hannibal's own, gripping, and Hannibal's palm rubbing against the thick line of the clothed arousal. Will is hypnotized by the display. His head pulling back to be able to take in the sight, his eyes flicking between their hands moving and Hannibal's face. He can tell Hannibal isn't holding back, his hips pushing into the touch, his hand moving fast. It's another act of debauchery and the hunger practically radiates off of Hannibal. It's hot and entrancing and Will shudders at the pang of arousal that stabs through him at Hannibal's question and tone.

"I've already made you a mess," Will answers, his voice breathless as his lips twitch into a small smile. He doesn't mean the come on Hannibal's clothing or hand. "And you're _my_ mess, Hannibal."

* * *

It's fitting. Will's foray into submission has curled like paper exposed to a flame. It hasn't burned or disintegrated, merely changed. Hannibal isn't certain why he ever believed that set roles would be enough to stabilize this man. There's still a part of him curious, still a part of him that wants to see Will submit, to try to construct foundations beneath his bent head and braced knees, but Hannibal believes it might be like trying to catch smoke. He'll try, but he won't be surprised if it fails. Yet despite his thoughts, despite his desire, he cannot help the way he watches Will as pleasure climbs through him like he very fire that had curled Will's edges. Will is an amalgamation of submission, dominance, and desire. A man knelt in supplication, sitting back on his knees, submissive, and yet still reaching up to direct the way Hannibal works his hand. It's beautifully fitting, and already Hannibal wonders if Will wants more than he says. Perhaps Will Graham is not the purist he believes himself to be. He's still a wild creature, afraid to turn his back and yet desperate for attention, so he compromises by watching warily and still melting into touch. Perhaps that is how Hannibal will find footing during this uphill climb. Submission should mix with dominance. Comprehension, creativity, and compromise.

Hannibal has never been a submissive man. He lacks the capability, lacks the desire to submit, lacks the trust in another, and yet with Will kneeling before him, cerulean eyes wide and dark with wonder, his hand tightly curled over the back of Hannibal's, he knows immediately that he will bend. He wrestles his control back, a starving man sharing a meal with another, and he halves the dominance to hand part to Will, willingly. Hannibal has already knelt at Will's feet, has already tasted his come and felt the pull of his hands in Hannibal's hair. Now it's Hannibal's turn to be debauched. If Will wishes it by Hannibal's own hand, he is not strong enough to argue.

So he ruts into his own hand and he allows himself to breathe harder. Soft, barely-there breaths crack and shatter into something rougher, ragged. His back throbs at the mild friction and yet Hannibal hardly cares. He chases his own pleasure, amazed to find Will's eyes on him, watching, _seeing_ , wishing to see him fall apart. Each breath he takes is full of the scent of Will's come and each second is full of the visual of Will on his knees. Hannibal feels the heat of Will's hand like a brand and the silken curl of his voice like a physical touch.

' _I've already made you a mess,_ ' Will says, and the smile that works its way onto his lips is like a punch. Hannibal's breath catches and his rhythm begins to falter, heat crawling up through his spine and simmering low and hot in his stomach. He doesn't close his eyes, doesn't dare look away, but already he can feel it. ' _And you're my mess, Hannibal.'_

Hannibal's orgasm hits him so hard that he feels like he's been shot, tearing a cloven path through his stomach. One moment his desperation is mounting, his breaths rougher, his rhythm growing more and more erratic, and the next he hears those words - _you're my mess._ The thought of Will staking even that mild claim is enough. His cock pulses under his hand and he jerks his hips up against his palm, grinding out his pleasure with a sound close to a choked curse. He's otherwise silent, perhaps a last effort to try and keep Chiyoh in the dark, but the expression on his face more than makes up for it. Hannibal doesn't look away as he grips at Will's hair and he doesn't look away even as agonized pleasure carves itself across his face. He comes hot and thick and messy in his slacks, the warmth and moisture immediately apparent, his legs trembling with the effort to keep himself upright. Through it all, the only sound that escapes Hannibal's throat is a breathless hiss of Will's name.

It's more than he'd ever hoped for, but it's not enough. Hannibal wants Will's hands on his skin. He wants to bite his lips to bleeding, to drink down Will's taste, to feel his body hot and intimate. For now, though, he's grateful. It will end poorly. Will's decisions often do. Yet Hannibal doesn't regret a second of this encounter. He'd do it again, if given the chance.

* * *

Will doesn't know which one of them has been more destructive to the other. How does one even determine that? The amount of bodies, the collateral damage, the severity of the infraction? They've both hidden blades from each other, they've both had their little surprises. Hannibal may have started the game, but Will has actively participated in it. He's not innocent, no matter the lingering hope he'd seen in Alana's eyes at the Verger estate. She'd tried hard to separate him from Hannibal, but Will had none of it and had used "we" and "us" with her. Sometimes he wonders how Margot and her are doing, but not now.

This evening has demonstrated how Will's fingers are actually claws. Hannibal's defenses have been shredded and Hannibal has _allowed_ it. Will knows. He knows he's infected Hannibal, gotten in nice and deep and set up shop in Hannibal's chest. It should be more harrowing, but right now Will is transfixed by the realization. Perhaps the one in control of the predator is actually the true monster for Will has no plans on retiring Hannibal. Collars and muzzles, judge and jury... Will has a lot to think on. He imagines Hannibal will be jumping at the bit to discuss this all... Or will Hannibal be shaken up and seek solitude?

But right now his claim stands. Hannibal is _his_ mess. Hannibal has been compromised by _him_. Will apparently has done what no other could -- he's the only one that's managed to capture Hannibal's heart. He's also managed to hurt it, to take a chisel and leave his engraving. To incite Hannibal into recklessness and witness that impressive composure begin to crack under his doing. Will's hand moves along with Hannibal's and Will doesn't look away from Hannibal's face. He's with him. Each second hangs heavy, desire and intimacy and power swirling like cream poured into coffee.

And then his claim pushes Hannibal over the edge. Hannibal looks both agonized and rapt as the orgasm crashes over him. Will's eyes widen at the spectacle, his own mouth forming a tight line to keep quiet as he pulls his hand away. Hannibal is mostly quiet, but he's expressive. Will likes seeing pleasure etched onto Hannibal's face. When Hannibal's clean hand then comes to grip at his hair, Will tenses but their eyes remain locked on one another. He has no words as his hand shakily reaches back up to press on the substantially larger wet spot now on Hannibal's pants. It's undeniable proof. The touch is brief and when his hand pulls away his eyes flick downward.

Will aches and the discomfort of the position runa back into him. The reality is the situation is now fighting for the spotlight. He's not quite sure if he wants to look at it just yet.

"Let go of me," Will murmurs, not meeting Hannibal's eyes. He needs a shower.

* * *

Will's hair is a grounding point. Hannibal misses the way Will tenses, for his mind is eclipsed by pleasure and the effort it takes to stay relatively still and silent. He's not cruel enough to announce this moment to Chiyoh when she is also living in the house; he's not established that level of comfort with her. He may never. So perhaps it is entirely Hannibal's fault for missing the obvious, but he doubts that circumstances would have changed had he seen the writing on the walls preemptively. Still, before reality begins to descend upon Will's mind, before Will's gaze seeks refuge away from Hannibal's line of sight, Hannibal dazedly meets Will's wide eyes and then can't help but close his own. He breathes heavily, dragging in great breaths of Will's scent as he chases those last few seconds of pleasure. Then his hand slowly drags away and buries itself in Will's hair instead. He fails to notice Will tense, but he doesn't fail to notice the sudden touch to the front of his slacks.

Hannibal resists the urge to twitch his hips forwards. Instead he opens his eyes halfway and takes a mental snapshot of the way Will's hand looks pressed up against evidence of his arousal. Yet in that moment something shifts, and Hannibal watches as Will finally looks away. Will doesn't immediately hedge around uncertainty, but Hannibal can see the uncomfortable shroud suddenly shoot back up over Will's expression. It's viscerally disappointing, but considering he's still breathing heavily, his body still trembling with the aftershocks, Hannibal swallows with a click of sound in his throat and then wearily releases his hold in Will's hair.

The words _let go of me_ are harsh. Hannibal tries not to let them register, to tell himself they were something else, but he knows they weren't. There's no kindness or fondness or familiarity in _let go of me_. It's a demand, defensive, often with an angry curl to it. Given the way Will won't meet his eyes now, Hannibal hesitates before complying. He shifts, disquieted but subtle about it, and then he finally pushes himself away from the wall, grimacing at the feeling of the wetness in his slacks. And, as Will commands, Hannibal reluctantly removes his fingers from Will's hair. He draws back, taking a few shaky steps back before he gets his feet out from under him properly.

"Tell me if you need help up," Hannibal says, still breathless, but as the seconds pass, he begins to gather himself in more. His control descends on him in micro-movements, in the lift of his chin, the way he rakes his clean fingers back through his hair to fix it, and the way Hannibal stands just a little straighter.

"Otherwise, I believe I will take my leave."

 _Let go of me_ does not instill confidence in Hannibal's heart of hearts.

"I believe we could both do with being put together again. A shower. Resting, perhaps," he adds, still breathing hard, and while he screens the bitterness from his voice, it's still there under the surface if one cares to look.


	7. Cruel lovers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Had he meant to discard Hannibal or merely escape to solitude and attempt to piece himself back together? It looks bad either way. Will knows this. Doing something so sexually intimate, the admissions (confessions?) and then pulling away and fleeing afterward... Had he sought to punish Hannibal? To flaunt what he could all do and get away with? Maybe that's what this is now. _Look what I can do, Hannibal. Can't lock me away, can't escape me, I'm your very own specter..._ The voice in his head is both cruel and petulant, his own forked-tongue hissing. (Perhaps Bedelia and he have more in common than Will would like to admit.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe I had forgotten 'Angst' in the tags! Haha... ha? (︶︹︺)  
> We have an ending in sight now. Perhaps the next chapter... !
> 
> Will is written by merrythoughts ([tumblr](http://merrythought.tumblr.com))  
> Hannibal/Chiyoh written by Dapperscript/reallymisscoffee ([tumblr](http://reallymisscoffee.tumblr.com/))

It's with his eyes avoiding Hannibal that Will shakily gets to his feet. He yanks up his boxers and pajama pants. Will all but slinks away to his room in some version of the infamous walk of shame. The only small consolation is that Chiyoh does not pop out to witness it. As soon he has the door closed, he's stripping out of his dirty clothing and climbing into the shower. Hannibal's touch and scent cling to him. In somewhat of a daze he scrubs himself, the hot water soothing stiff muscles. Will is still careful with his injuries and after rinsing the shampoo from his hair, he leans against the tile and closes his eyes. He tries to pull himself back together.

It doesn't really work.

He feels pulled apart, handled like dough. The knowledge of what they've exposed to one another cannot be covered up, cannot be forgotten. There will be no unseeing for them. Like Mason's brand, what's been revealed and experienced has been seared onto him. They're desperate men, reckless men. Compromised men. And Will is beginning to think Hannibal has it worse than him. He had been the one to think of Hannibal high up in a tower, unreachable and otherworldly. That image has been shattered and like the teacup it's not coming back together. Is he the curious child that has thrown the rock at the window or is he the rock itself and fate the child?

He can hurt Hannibal. He's compromised Hannibal. Steam billows around Will in the shower and he breathes in slowly, trying to figure out how to process this, where to go with it. How much of what had occurred was due to pent up emotions and hormones waiting to burst out at the first hint of seams ripping? Will remembers feeling both sewn up (Hannibal mending, Hannibal not pushing or taking, Hannibal proving that Will can trust him) and also being torn open because he'd let confessions slip out so easily. But all of his admissions had been given of his own volition. Hannibal hadn't had to pry them out.

Will's not embarrassed about his own almost-nudity. He doesn't care that he came quickly touching himself. He doesn't care that Hannibal now knows the feel of his dick both soft and hard. He's not bothered by the sounds he made, by his foot reaching out and rubbing against Hannibal's crotch. He'd been a demanding thing, moving Hannibal this way and that way, telling Hannibal what he wanted...

Christ, he'd admitted to _loving_ Hannibal and Hannibal hadn't even said it back. Perhaps love confessions like that are only for the movies. Will doesn't need it.

He feels it. He knows it.

But he doesn't quite know how to handle feeling so seen by Hannibal. (Oh, he'd wanted it. He'd craved it, he'd told Hannibal that he liked being watched while placing the ortolan in his mouth, that he enjoyed Hannibal watching him eat, that he wanted Hannibal to watch while he killed--)

When he's sufficiently prune-y, Will gets out of the shower. He feel sluggish and worn, rife with indecision. He changes into an undershirt and clean boxers and climbs into bed.

He tests his shoulder's range of motion. His injuries have began to heal and Will is beginning to realize that it's not just the physical ones. He lies on his bed for what seems like hours. He listens to the other occupants in the house shuffle around and Will thinks tonight is going to be the night that he goes to Hannibal's bedroom. He just hopes the door isn't locked. He's not sure Hannibal is going to be in the mood to deal with him after his realization of Bedelia's meddling and his own less than smooth exit. Maybe Hannibal wants to brood and mull everything over, but Will has no plans on letting that happen.

* * *

The silence between them is thick when Will quietly takes his leave. Hannibal doesn't protest, doesn't pull him back. He merely notes Will's downcast eyes and stays still, as if watching a deer pick its way warily through the woods. He doesn't wish to frighten Will like this, and ultimately Will is not the only one who has much to think about. So Hannibal remains and watches Will leave. He waits only until he hears the soft creak of Will's feet on the steps and then Hannibal gingerly gets to work.

He strips his shirt off and cleans his hand off on the fabric. It's covered in Will's scent - in his come - anyway. His own back is a measure of quiet agony and he finds himself wondering if he'll have to ask Chiyoh to change his bandages that night. Hannibal glances over the thought dismissively and instead turns his attention to the wall where he'd pinned Will. It takes him only a few minutes to clean the residual drops of come from the floor, and longer yet to wash the glass of wine left behind. Hannibal doesn't finish it. He merely focuses himself on the task at hand, and when the discomfort of tacky come in his slacks becomes too great to ignore, he stops, listens, and waits until he hears the shower going. Only then does Hannibal climb the stairs to walk into his room, retrieving a change of clothes that he then takes back downstairs. In the event that Will wanders, Hannibal wishes him to have his privacy.

Hannibal washes himself in the downstairs bathroom. He's quiet, attempting to keep his mind blank as he works, but it's difficult to manage. _Loving you is a bloodsport_ , Will had said, and the words still float there like baited lures, fancy and twirling and tempting, but Hannibal knows the danger hidden within them. If he bites (and he fears that one day he might) there will be no escaping the knowledge. He cares about this man. In many ways Hannibal believes he loves him, but _love_ is not a concept he is familiar with. Hannibal hasn't _loved_ anyone in decades, and yet he'd slaughtered men for Will. He'd risked everything. Love makes him weak, and for all that he cannot be weak now, he's beginning to fear that this isn't something he gets to negotiate.

Hannibal dresses once he's cleaned himself off as much as he can. It's late enough for bed and so he simply dresses himself in a softer pair of black pajama pants. When he exits the bathroom, he's not surprised to see Chiyoh lingering in her doorway. Her eyes are narrowed, shy of accusatory, but she says nothing at first. Hannibal merely watches as she lifts an eyebrow and looks him over. He considers the silent question and then shakes his head. He doesn't need her assistance.

"Very well," Chiyoh says, accepting Hannibal's decision. "Have your eyes opened? When you look at him, what shape does he take?"

Hannibal remembers what she'd said, speaking of wolves and foxes and silver tongues. His smile is mirthless and doesn't reach his eyes. "His own."

Chiyoh's frustration is almost palpable as she sighs, but she still ducks her head in a respectful nod. She knows better than to push now.

Hannibal nods back, just once. Then he steps past her. Together, they clean the remnants from dinner and Hannibal patrols the house to ensure every window and door is locked, as he does every night. When he retires close to an hour later, he's tired, both physically and mentally, and Will Graham is eclipsing his mind.

Hannibal takes his clothing upstairs and sets it beside his bed, the mixed scent of come still strong to his senses. He'll wash the fabric in the morning, when he's guaranteed to not bother Will. He then readies himself for bed, quick and efficient despite his injuries. His back hurts, but it's his leg that is left throbbing, still displeased at how the stitches had tugged when Will had pulled Hannibal onto his feet from his kneeling position. Hannibal sits on his bed and carefully massages around the injury for a few minutes, thinking of Will and everything that had happened on the main floor. Yet in the end, Hannibal merely finds himself tired. He shifts, easing himself down on his stomach in bed, his bandages uncomfortable but capable of being left for the evening. He does consider locking his door, just in case, but in the end, he dismisses the idea. Even now, despite the mess he's likely invited in, Will is still welcome in his bed.

* * *

Will lies on his back looking up at the ceiling for what feels like hours. He hears movement downstairs and focuses on it. It sounds like Chiyoh and Hannibal cleaning up after dinner and then Hannibal doing his cursory security checks. Will listens to Hannibal eventually come upstairs and go to his own room. Will could stay here, stay in the safety of him room, tucked into bed. Tomorrow if he refused to leave his room Hannibal would probably even bring him food. Or make Chiyoh do it. He could effectively hide. (Hannibal's words - ' _I don't hide from God'_ \- streak through his mind, the bold statement tempting and frightening in equal measure.) Will could stay. There's nothing forcing him to rise and slip out of bed -- nothing except for the damnable thread pulling at him.

But his heart knows where he wants to be, his limbs move accordingly to bring him there. He's outside Hannibal's door in no time, his hand raising to... Knock or just twist the door handle? Will considers his choices. Sure, there's a part that just wants to barge in -- to assert that he knows he _can,_ but there's also part that doesn't want to be an asshole because he can remember how Hannibal had behaved, how Hannibal hadn't done anything without his permission. In the end, Will decides on a compromise: he knocks softly once to announce himself and then he lets himself in.

The room is dark, the only light is from the moon streaming in from the window. Hannibal is on his stomach, shirtless from what Will can see. Will pads on over to the opposite side of the bed. He can feel Hannibal watching him curiously, silently waiting to for Will to reveal his goal.

Will would also like to know just what he's hoping to accomplish here. He has the distinct feeling that staying _away_ from Hannibal isn't in the cards for him. He's pretty sure that staying away is what led to everything rising up to that level to begin with. Will doesn't want it to get to that point again -- where they're desperate enough to fucking go at it in the dining room like teenagers. He wants to be above that.

"Thought you might have locked the door on me," Will comments as he slips under the sheets.

* * *

Certain creatures exist on the boundaries of predictability. Wild animals that have been allowed to linger too close to civilization, retaining a feral nature but also slowly domesticating themselves out of convenience. Crows that creep closer and then flutter away at the slightest of movements, a bold fox trotting up to a picnic table, stealing food, and then madly dashing away, even feral dogs and cats, hissing and growling but still aching for something more than they have.

As Hannibal lays in bed, his eyes closed, each breath measured, he can't help but compare Will to each of those creatures. Will Graham is a man torn in multiple directions, unaware of what he needs. One moment he wants everything, the next he's terrified and pulling back. Then he's reckless and wanting, lashing out, and then he recoils. He's reckless, violent, and then withdraws on himself, as if startled by his own actions. Will's damnable red thread always pulling him closer but strangling him in the process. Hannibal thinks of Chiyoh's words, and much as he hates to admit it, Will _is_ a fox in this scenario. He's skirting the line of domesticity, willing to take advantage and benefit from him only to snarl and snap when Hannibal attempts to take certain liberties. Were it anyone else, Hannibal wouldn't stand for it, but Will has always been given a free pass.

He's caught, trying to think about this just as badly as he's trying to avoid it. Hannibal breathes slow, relaxing, and he's almost managed to calm himself properly when suddenly he hears the shuffling from across the room. Hannibal goes so still that he wonders if even his heart has taken a break to listen. He's quiet as Will tracks his way close, and while he hears Will at his door, he doesn't begin to hope... until there's a soft knock and then the door opens. Hannibal's eyes open.

He sees no glint of a knife. Will is dressed for sleep, his angles only just visible in the faint moonlight. His hair is mussed in the way only a restless sleeper can claim and Hannibal remains still as Will wanders close. A wild animal curiously slipping near, and Hannibal warns himself not to touch. There's no telling what this is, or what Will wants it to be. He merely lays and waits. When Will finally begins to ease under the sheets, Hannibal hesitates and then slowly reaches over to help him.

"I gave it thought," Hannibal admits quietly. Is there any point in lying to Will right now? He's seen this man vulnerable and wanting, and despite being sexually intimate, Hannibal is still aware that he doesn't _have_ Will. Will wields his love like a weapon, his words like a whip. Hannibal can't help but be cautious. Without the flood of rage and arousal, Hannibal is acutely aware of the power imbalance between them.

"By rights, I should have. I am not so easy to discard, Will. Yet I also know you. I suspect that had the door been locked, it would have proven something to you. This - you here - is a test. Though I admit, I am not certain what you're testing me for. Patience, perhaps," Hannibal muses, easing the sheets down over Will's body and then taking his hand back. He's not been invited to touch. "Obsession. Honesty. The list could be endless in that beautiful mind of yours."

* * *

Of course Hannibal lifts the sheets for him. Why wouldn't he? Hannibal is as tangled as he. Scratch that. More so. The realization is heavy, a veritable ball and chain even though it's _Hannibal_ who's undoubtedly chained by him. Is it empowering or terrifying? Will's not quite sure. He's climbed into bed with a prolific serial killer who is known to forgive with a blade. But there's a steadily growing pile of evidence that depicts a different picture of Hannibal Lecter.

Will's done this to him, too. Will's done this. And yeah, that's frightening. It hadn't been his intention. At one point he'd wanted to fuck Hannibal up. He'd wanted Hannibal to _hurt,_ to _pay._ Hannibal lying to him, framing him, Hannibal killing Beverly, Hannibal's involvement with Margot... Abigail. He's got a long list of what he should make Hannibal pay for and yet Will is riddled with some twist of sympathy for this man. For getting his claws in so deep and ripping Hannibal's heart open.

It's like Will knows on some level that Hannibal is the type of animal who doesn't need a mate, who doesn't belong to any sort of pack pack, but now he's found something - someone - and he'll never be the same again. The environment of Hannibal's heart and mind have been altered. There's no going back. He can't release Hannibal back into the wild and Will doesn't want to anyway. Hannibal is his. His mess. Chains, collars, leashes.

He observes with some amusement that Hannibal is being very careful to not touch him. All respectful, all careful. Hannibal speaks of himself being discarded (technically true). Of Will testing him. Patience. Obsession. Honesty. Will's not so sure what his so called 'beautiful mind' is testing for, but Hannibal, as usual, is on the right track. It's probably answer D -- all of the above.

"I'm sure we'll both find out soon enough," Will answers.

Will slides closer to Hannibal before turning away and onto his side, offering his back up to Hannibal. "Curve around me," Will then instructs. "You can hold me." He'd prefer their positions were reversed, but the brand on Hannibal's back makes it impossible. Will wants to be closer and this position takes away the intimacy of eye contact at least. He's fairly confident Hannibal will oblige him, but there's a flicker of fear that Hannibal might deny him this now.

* * *

There is no doubt in Hannibal's mind that this is a test. Could it be anything else? There are times where Will is not so shrouded, where his actions make sense. He is a reckless creature most times and yet sometimes he is so plain, so clear to Hannibal's eyes. Perhaps it's why he hadn't locked the door. In that moment when he'd been deciding, he'd allowed himself a glimpse into Will's mind. A mere possibility perhaps, but he'd been correct. Will, restless, waiting until Hannibal had retired to bed suddenly testing the door. If locked, perhaps it would have been proof to him that he was worthless after all, that Hannibal remained closed to him, that his suspicion that he'd done something wrong would have been confirmed. Yet keeping the door unlocked... Hannibal wonders what that says. Does it say that he forgives Will his sins? Does it say that Will is still welcome with him when he makes a mistake? Or does it simply say that Will has muzzled him and that he will be able to get away with more with each new dawn?

The thought sends something twisted and bitter through Hannibal's chest but he simply breathes through it, calm, forcing himself relaxed. Will's answer - that not even he knows what this is a test for - draws a bitter flood to Hannibal's chest, but it's mixed with a damnable fondness. He's reminded once again that were Will anyone else, he'd be dead by now. Hannibal wonders just when Will had begun to file down his fangs, to domesticate him. Cutting Will open, gutting him... it had been a desperate act to scream his ferocity, that _he_ was still in charge of his own mind (and more importantly, his own heart) and yet it had failed. When had he fallen so completely? What more will he allow?

The answer is impossible to find and so when Will eases in closer and then slowly turns onto his side, Hannibal's attention is once again caught. He watches, quiet, and he lifts an eyebrow at the initial command, but it softens at the permission. It's not a request. It's an _allowance_. Hannibal feels that bitterness again, but is he bitter at Will for knowing, or is he bitter at himself for _allowing?_ Hannibal's still, thoughtful. He doesn't move. Just for a petulant moment, he wishes to teach a lesson. In the dim moonlight, he can see Will's shoulders begin to tense, can practically hear the concerned thoughts fuss out of him, but Hannibal doesn't leave him to suffer.

He should. He doesn't.

Hannibal shifts, mindful of his back. It's not comfortable to move half-onto his side. It's painful. Yet as he reaches an arm out to wrap around Will's side, looping it around to splay his hand over Will's chest, he decides the pain is worth it. Hannibal hides every flicker of discomfort in Will's ambivalence as he closes the distance between them, and when he's situated properly, he can feel Will's heat through the bandages looped around his back and chest. Hannibal's breath tickles the soft hair at the nape of Will's neck and his arm tightens around Will's chest. Possessiveness. He is not a _good_ man.

"Do you intend to stay the night?"

* * *

Had he meant to discard Hannibal or merely escape to solitude and attempt to piece himself back together? It looks bad either way. Will knows this. Doing something so sexually intimate, the admissions (confessions?) and then pulling away and fleeing afterward... Had he sought to punish Hannibal? To flaunt what he could do and get away with? Maybe that's what this is now. _Look what I can do, Hannibal. Can't lock me away, can't escape me, I'm your very own specter..._ The voice in his head is both cruel and petulant, his own forked-tongue hissing. (Perhaps Bedelia and he have more in common than Will would like to admit.)

But Will wants to rise above that. It can't be an eye for an eye. He can't be focusing on their score, on how the scales even out between them. Will's not exactly experienced and knowledgeable about love, but he's seen enough. He knows love isn't fair. It's not a 50-50 split filled with compromises and clear skies. And it's not always clean and pretty and _good_. It can be messy and painful, confusing and conflicting.

Hannibal makes him wait for a little bit before he complies and begins to shift. In that moment Will fights down the antsy nerves that are climbing up. He remains tense until he feels Hannibal press against him, his body curving around his own. The arm that comes to rest on him feels like a warm, comforting weight. The undershirt is thin enough that he feels Hannibal's warmth easily. Hannibal has no shirt on and while Will feels tempted to pull away and slip off his own undershirt, he's not going to. He eases into Hannibal's torso, willing himself to relax. He's been spooned before, sure, but it's more of a rare thing. Will's never been into cuddling. Most one night stands would roll away afterward... but there's something strangely comforting about this.

Then the question of his sleeping intentions is asked of him and Will makes a noncommittal sound. He can feel Hannibal's breath on the back of his neck and Will can't help but shiver. He feels sensitive and alert to every little sensory detail that Hannibal is giving him. The press of his body against his, Hannibal's tight hold, Hannibal's chest rising and falling. It demands his focus, it wraps him up.

"I think so," Will murmurs. "You want me to. Been waiting every night for me to creep into your room, haven't you? What's it feel like to _want,_ Hannibal?"

Will purposefully arches into Hannibal.

* * *

Hannibal's shown his hand and he knows it. The question would be innocent from anyone else but Will is as much a predator as he is, much as he'd like to hide it. Just as Hannibal is willing to exploit weakness, so is Will, and while the words are casual, Hannibal knows he's just done the equivalent of baring his throat. He feels the way Will awkwardly relaxes against him - he's not used to this, then, being held - but Will doesn't disappoint. As soon as the words are out, Hannibal feels him still. He can almost hear the gears in Will's mind grinding as they settle into this bastardization of comfort and Hannibal can feel the precise moment that Will realizes that Hannibal has shown his hand. To Will's credit, he doesn't say anything immediately. Instead he simply allows himself to get used to the sensation around him, the sensation of being held. Whether it's to lull Hannibal into a false sense of security or simply because he's trying to decide if he enjoys the feeling is anyone's guess.

The words, when they come, are barbed. Hannibal had known that they would be. Yet Will's voice is quiet, a hushed whisper between them, almost intimate in its volume. In a way, it's fitting to have Will's words lash so softly. Haven't they always courted intimacy even in the most destructive of moments? Hannibal closes his eyes and stays still, breathing through the lance of bitterness that wells up in his chest. He takes in Will's scent, a faded spice unique to him, muted by the soap from the shower. Hannibal lets the scent carry his bitterness back down, and while he muses on muzzles and domestication, it means that he's more in control when he does answer.

"You know I have been," he murmurs low against the nape of Will's neck. Despite the bitterness, despite the tension lingering from the abrupt dismissal downstairs, it hasn't escaped Hannibal's notice that Will is still here. He may not be comfortable like this, and yet he's still invited Hannibal to touch him, to hold him. In this instance, Hannibal focuses on what Will's actions are saying more than his words. Granted his actions are also reckless. Hannibal feels the way Will arches back against him and Hannibal's eyes close tighter, his breath stuttering almost imperceptibly. He'll never be able to dismiss Will intentionally moving _closer_.

Hannibal presses his forehead to the back of Will's shoulder, careful to attempt to limit contact to the undershirt he wears and not his skin. He doesn't open his eyes but he doesn't have to. He can see Will perfectly in his mind's eye, and when Hannibal's arm tightens around him just enough to keep Will pressed back against him, he knows it's a risk. It's one he intends to take.

"I have known desire before. I have wanted before. Yet before you it was manageable." Quid pro quo. If Will is allowing this of him, Hannibal will give him what he wants. Will wants to be different, to be memorable. Bruised pride is easily dismissed. "I have been waiting every night, and I don't doubt that I will wait in nights to come. I should lock the door and be done with it, but you know I won't. Do you feel powerful, Will? Knowing the hold you have over me?"

* * *

Hannibal has held him before, but never like this, never by Will's own invitation and never so _completely_. For once, he's whole -- at least physically. He's not bleeding from a gash to his stomach nor is Hannibal plunging a needle into him to drug him. He's not being carried through the snow, banged up and bloody. He's on the fucking mend, courtesy of Hannibal Lecter, and he's now in Hannibal's bed. It may feel a little surreal, but each second that passes, reality settles in. He's here. Hannibal's here. The months apart seem more like a bad memory, but the present remains in flux. (But it's a flux that _he_ moderates...)

Is this a game he's playing now? Ribbing Hannibal just a little, just a bit of a tease, brushing up against a truth they both know. Will may have came to this house on the bluff uncertain of his worth and expecting the worse, but he's been shifted from that position. Plucked from the outskirts to be placed in the center of Hannibal's attention now, setting up home in the murky territory of Hannibal's heart.

Will doesn't think he's necessarily trying to _hurt_ Hannibal with his words, but he knows he's not being kind. Shades of grey. Seems appropriate to be dwelling within that. Hannibal is in no rush to reply and while there's a frisson of impatience, it hardly seems important to let it show or to be demanding in this. (Oh yes, he wants to push, curious and intrigued, but Will is stepping out on ice here, he wants to feel this out, at least a little.)

In a way being held like this feels more intimate than having his dick in Hannibal's mouth. There's something distinctly uncomfortable about being vulnerable, about receiving care and comfort. Sex is one thing. Sexual activities don't necessarily _require_ a degree of emotional connection (although it's a little trickier for him with his empathy, but alcohol helps dull things). As Hannibal rests his forehead against his shoulder, Will wonders if he's purposely trying to reduce skin to skin contact. He's thinking of asking when Hannibal's arm tightens. It gives him a slight jolt of pain in his shoulder, but it's manageable. Just another reminder that he's alive.

Apparently before him desire was manageable for Hannibal. Will thinks Hannibal is managing just fine, but he's biased. Will suspects Hannibal is, in a way, placating him. Playing nice, being careful. (Comfort and care in another form.) After considering the question posed to him, Will pushes back a little enabling him to feel Hannibal's unrelenting hold. He lets out a slow breath before relaxing once more.

"Powerful? Yeah... But I don't think I'm exactly practiced or prepared for it," Will answers back. It's honesty that he wasn't exactly planning to give. He's veering further from grey now. Should he be worried? Will doesn't know. "Also privileged... I feel privileged."

* * *

Perhaps it is naive of him to be expecting Will to gloat, but despite Will's claims since they'd arrived at the house, love hardly seems to be a contributing factor. Obsession, perhaps, a violent, obsessive, darker feeling. Will has claimed many things since arriving. Love had been one of them, and yet he's rarely seen Will tender. Hannibal is beginning to wonder if he'd know what to do with it were Will not grating and barbed. Even while changing his bandages, Will is not fully present. He shields himself in the same way Hannibal does. So while Will is perhaps not intending this moment to be cruel, Hannibal expects nothing else. Which is precisely why Hannibal goes still when Will finally does answer him. He'd been expecting Will's agreement, but he hadn't been expecting more than that.

Will feels powerful, but not prepared. To follow the metaphor he's been using, Will has muzzled and collared a beast. Akin to a wolf, to follow Chiyoh's metaphor. Hannibal considers this as Will eases back against him. Just as Hannibal's hold sparks a small lance of pain in Will's shoulder, so too does Will's shifting aggravate Hannibal's back. It's a fair trade, and even as Hannibal closes his eyes against the ache, he welcomes it as Will's influence. It's a reminder, both to Will and to himself, just how far Hannibal is willing to go for this man. Permanent disfigurement simply to ensure Will's safety... granted, his own freedom had been part of his patience as well, but the memory burns as much as the brand does. The brand is both proof that Hannibal should have killed Will already as well as proof that he _can't_. The brand may belong to the Verger family physically, but Will owns it.

The thought is unpleasant. Hannibal's lips pull down, his brow furrowing ever so slightly, but just when it reaches a difficult level to handle, Will quietly adds the final note. ' _Also privileged... I feel privileged,'_ he says, and the words are like a blade carving through Hannibal's tension, his bitterness. Perhaps Will doesn't intend the admission as anything more than a statement, but the words are still aimed to soothe, to equalize their ground. Hannibal stills thoughtfully. He wonders if Will had intended to say that.

"Then perhaps there is hope for us yet," Hannibal says quietly against the fabric of Will's undershirt. He presses his lips there, not to kiss, merely to feel the warmth, mindful of the arch of Will's body and the curl of Will's hair, still feeling somewhat damp from the shower he'd taken. It feels soft against Hannibal's cheek. "Feeling privileged denotes an awareness, a... respect. To simply feel power, you lord the collar and leash around my throat. You muzzle me because you can. Power _and_ privilege... That is another matter entirely."

* * *

Intentions seem to hardly matter at times. Will hadn't _intended_ to do many things, but he'd done them anyway. He hadn't intended to catch Hannibal's eye, for example. He hadn't intended to endanger Beverly. He hadn't intended to sleep with Margot and help create a child. He hadn't intended to call Hannibal to warn him. He hadn't intended to doom Abigail. He hadn't intended to be desperate though to go to his knees beneath a chapel. He hadn't intended to do any real harm to Hannibal in Florence. He hadn't intended to use the knife on his own throat in the kitchen and yet...

Had it merely been curiosity that tugged him from his bed and pulled him here? Does he want to stir up the pot some more, or maybe Will wants to rest his head, to lower his hackles. Just a bit... (Is there a reprieve to be found within Hannibal's embrace? Safety and security within a serial killer's hold?)

He could gloat. By inviting this topic he's skimmed across the surface of it. Will's the one who's somehow muzzled Hannibal and yet it's terrifying to feel the _weight_ of such a realization. It hadn't been his intention... He'd been so damn uncertain about his worth, he'd shoved Hannibal high up on a pedestal, considered him untouchable and distant, but he'd been mistaken. Will's beginning to see. To really _see_. They're both in tatters. They're both changed. And he _does_ feel privileged because the fact that, through the destruction of their lives, through the heaps of hurt and betrayal, a part of Hannibal is as helpless as he is and loves him. It's fucking staggering. Fucking _loves_. They both know it.

 _'Then perhaps there is hope for us yet.'_ Will doesn't know about that. Creatures like them - destructive and problematic - Will doesn't think 'hope' factors into any equation involving them. Oh, he _understands_. Will gets that him having some measure is respect for this all is important to Hannibal. Hannibal may be in love with him, Hannibal may be allowing him certain liberties, but even Hannibal has limits.

"I'd be lying if I claimed to not be fascinated by the notion of muzzling you," Will admits. "Man has always delighted in having power over another and you being you... Well, I bet you never expected all this to come about." Hannibal's hold on him is tight. Will feels compact and pressed together. It's perhaps more unsettling how kind of nice it is. "You trying to avoid my skin on purpose, Hannibal?" Will then asks. "Not going to touch or do anything unless I give you permission?" The idea of that causes Will to feel a little warmer.

* * *

It comes as no surprise to Hannibal that Will finds fascination - perhaps even comfort - in the thought of muzzling him. As Will says, hasn't it always been mankind's drive to lord power over another? To hold dominion over another, with special emphasis on those stronger than oneself? The weak prey on the infirm and the sick, but the strong prey on those on their levels or above. Will has never been weak. While he'd lived for decades behind a veil, blinders over his eyes like a skittish horse, he has done nothing but tackle challenges head on from the moment the blinders had been removed. He hasn't set his sights on children or those physically weaker than himself. No, he'd set his sights on Hannibal Lecter. Will Graham is not a coward, and Hannibal finds that despite the recklessness and the unpredictability, he admires Will overall for his daring. He respects Will in return.

"In all my years, I never could have anticipated you," Hannibal confirms quietly, like a secret between lovers in the night. Is that what this is, he wonders? Something so simple seems almost impossible when he thinks about who and what they are. Yet as he feels the shift of Will's muscles under his skin and feels the imprint of his warmth so close, Hannibal believes they can at least borrow the term. _Lovers_. So quaint, so terrifying considering who they are, and yet it fits despite all the bitterness attached. Hannibal allows the reality to settle around him and then merely lets it go. He breathes in the warm scent of the soap on Will's skin and the unique scent that is strictly _Will_ and Hannibal's fingers press a little harder against Will's chest. It's not hard enough to bruise, but he almost wishes it was.

Hannibal is not surprised when Will continues. His voice is low but sharp, curved in a way almost intended to wound, and yet Hannibal feels no lash from it. Instead he feels only pride. Will is right; Hannibal's making an effort not to touch his skin directly. Will's confidence is growing slowly. A year ago, he never would have dared shed light on Hannibal's actions. Will is becoming even now, bit by bit, day by day.

Hannibal's thumb rubs slowly over Will's chest, over the undershirt he wears. He's holding Will tight enough to be painful and yet Will doesn't seem bothered. Instead he seems only bold, and like this, in the dark of the night, the distant sound of the ocean and waves lapping at the cliff-side far below, Hannibal presses in a little closer. He still doesn't touch Will's skin.

"And yes, Will. This is intentional," he confirms quietly. "You are injured, residing in a home you don't own with two people who have done you great harm in the past, and you own nothing but what you brought with you in your bag. You have suffered trauma and your foundations have been cracked. Like this, with me, you have very few guarantees. This is the least I can do." Hannibal's hand slides down just a little bit, enough to splay his palm almost possessively over Will's chest. "I can give you a space that is yours and yours alone unless you extend the invitation, and I can guarantee you that - barring extreme circumstances - I will not touch you without your permission."

* * *

He'd had a lot of time to ask himself just what the fuck was going to happen when he found Hannibal. Will had let himself ponder more on the reunion than the _after_ part. Granted, he hadn't assumed they would be quite this injured. He hadn't thought Hannibal's guard dog would be with them too. He'd been short sighted, desperation surging through him, recklessness pushing him on. Finding Hannibal. Seeing Hannibal. Understanding why... It had practically consumed him, enough that he'd left to search out the very many that had left him before. Each day he stays he lets go of who he used to be. Alone and unique, avoiding eyes, avoiding people, teacher, profiler, stray collector, wanna-be father. Who will he become now? (Hannibal is a killer. Hannibal is a cannibal. Hannibal is cruel. Will is... Will is...)

Wrapped in Hannibal's arms, flush against his body, in Hannibal's bed, in his room, in his house... this is his life. Their stay will not be permanent in his house that smells of the nearby ocean, but he's chosen... hasn't he? Will hadn't exactly consented to being taken here. He doesn't want to think what would happen if he were to leave. What's left for him? He'd have to get out. Away from Jack, away from Alana and Freddie. Away from all the goddamn people who weren't Hannibal Lecter. Will doesn't know if he's strong enough to do that. To run away from _this._ And it's going to be bloody and messed up, tangles and all, nooses, chains, but it's Hannibal who's somehow pierced him. Like the fucking wound man, like Jeremy Olmstead, Will feels pierced. Stabbed. And he's going to bleed out if Hannibal's not near, if Hannibal's hands don't press down and hold his insides inside. Has he always been this weak? This fractured?

Focus.

He tries to focus on Hannibal's breathing. He can feel it against his neck. Hannibal's hand is on his chest, his thumb rubbing over the shirt. He knows Hannibal wants to be careful. He knows Hannibal had mentioned fucking Stockholm Syndrome before. Hannibal isn't wrong. He has nothing but his instability, his fucking trauma and apparently _some_ control over Hannibal. Actually, too much, probably. Will wants to laugh, but it'd be a haggard sounding thing if he did.

"You've already touched me, you've shaken everything up," Will replies, the words feel wrenched out of himself. He sounds a little theatrical to himself, but he can't help it. He doesn't want to freak out, but he feels edgy, restless. Hannibal's hold is tight and yet he fidgets, but not necessarily to get free.

He wants (Hannibal, everything, to kill again, Bedelia dead, to carve out some future with Hannibal, to not exist because this is too fucked up to handle).

He knows (it's futile, it's hopeless, it's too late, he's marked, there's no going back, the red thread is attached to an anchor that's dropping into the ocean--)

"It's all you from here on out. We're both ruined," Will says, tone acidic. "And I'm going to destroy you."

* * *

It would be an argument of semantics to issue a protest now. Yes, he's touched Will, he's shaken things up, but it had been after Will had given his permission, his consent. If Will intends the words as a lash, they don't stick. Instead the blow strikes, the welt forms, and it heals almost immediately for it's nothing that Hannibal hasn't been thinking for the last couple of hours, ever since he'd gotten to his knees. He knows his decision had been reckless, foolish, and yet as he lays there with Will against his chest, the taste of his come a sensory memory in the back of Hannibal's mind, he can't bring himself to regret it. He'll live with the consequences that arise, and despite the first apparently being some amalgamation of Will's guilt and anger, Hannibal's hold on Will doesn't relax. He doesn't shy away from the tension he can feel building in Will's body. He only wonders what shape Will's disquiet will take.

It's a quiet curiosity that makes Hannibal remain silent. Yes, he's irritated with this man, and yes, he's relieved that Will apparently respects him, but he's not so naive as to believe that's it. Will Graham had pulled a knife on him in Florence. He'd attempted to pull a knife on himself not long ago. He is hardly the picture of stability and Hannibal is aware of how quickly his moods can change. It's not borderline. It's not bipolar. His moods are cyclic and triggered. It's widespread empathy and no clear solution. The only issue is that Hannibal has never treated another like Will. He doubts he ever will. So it's half-uncertainty and half-curiosity that makes him stay his hand.

At least... it is until Will speaks. He's quick, squirming, restless, and Hannibal holds him until he knows whether or not to act. Yet when Will's tone goes from tight to caustic, Hannibal's frown is immediate. It's hidden in the back of Will's shirt and Hannibal leans away just enough so that Will can't feel the imprint of Hannibal's lips against his shoulder. It's hardly the response that Hannibal had been expecting, particularly following kindness and understanding, and yet there's a small, bitter part of himself that isn't surprised. Somewhere deep in Will's mind, Hannibal is beginning to suspect there are wires crossed. He responds to kindness and empathy in kind with bitterness or violence and this is no different. At first, Hannibal closes his eyes and sighs, his breath only just rustling the hair at Will's nape, but the disappointment is short-lived. To his credit (partially to his relief), he is far more irritated with Will's claim than he is anything else.

"Haven't you already?" Hannibal asks, and his voice is quiet, almost whisper-soft, a forked tongue to a curious young woman in the middle of a vast, beautiful garden. "Do you honestly believe I would allow myself to fall so far from grace for anyone else? To live isolated and hunted after willingly dangling myself as bait? I've disappeared before, Will. Even you, with all your resources, all your dedication... had I truly wished to vanish, you never would have found me. You destroyed me that evening we spent cauterizing the loose ends of my old life. Each file you burned was another nail in my coffin, another fracture you carved through my bones."

Hannibal's voice remains soft, but his words are not kind and he knows it. Yet even as he speaks, his hold tightens, would-be comfort covering for possession. One of his hands drifts down, splaying low over Will's shirt. Under it is the scar he'd made a point to avoid, and yet Hannibal can feel the sensitive ridges, can feel the proof of Will's mortality under his hands like his beating heart. He almost wants to scoff at the notion that only moments before, he'd attributed them to lovers. Perhaps Will is only capable of love whilst armed with something capable of cutting - be they his words or a blade. Hannibal presses down on Will's abdomen, harder, and it's bolder, blatant. Despite how tender the position, Hannibal still has him. If Will doesn't particularly enjoy that, he'll likely not enjoy much. Perhaps holding too tight and refusing to let go is reckless, but considering who Hannibal's counterpart is, perhaps 'reckless' is simply another way to coexist.

* * *

It's reckless. It's the beating of the ocean against the eroding bluff calling to him, ' _do it, jump, fly or fall_ '. It's the oncoming traffic he could swerve into while driving. It's a threat that Will wants to think is a promise. He hadn't asked for this. Hadn't asked for this burdensome love, an unrelenting connection and an unbreakable red thread. But you don't bite the hand that feeds you, you don't threaten the one taking care of you. Will's not a complete idiot. As soon as the words are out, he wishes he could stuff them back on his mouth and down his throat, but it's not possible. There's no taking back the volatile sentiment.

He feels Hannibal's head pull away. He's expecting to be shoved away, discarded. Punished. To face consequences. Those are the rules the world plays by. You hurt or anger someone, they retaliate in some fashion. Will's waiting for it. Body primed in anticipation for the push. It could be words, it could be an action, but Hannibal Will surely not let this infraction slide.

But the words don't come. He's not released, he's not nudged away. Hannibal retaliates with truth. A beautiful riposte that slices thinly, cleanly. Earlier in the evening Will had claimed to have destroyed Hannibal's way of life in Baltimore. Hannibal only confirms this. The hold intensifies. It's a little painful, but it feels appropriate. Hannibal knows how to hurt him, too. Maybe this is what's being shown to him. A hand moves down from his chest and Will squirms in the hold, dual dread and sensitivity from the blatant pressure against his scar. Once again he thinks of the times he'd stroked along it, imagining a zipper that could be dragged to open himself up and he could fall apart again, bleed out the vile...

"I love you," Will grits out. "But I want to fucking hurt you too." He squeezes his eyes shut hard. "I don't want all this, all this power over you. I never asked for it. It's not how you played before. You're changing the rules."

Oh, Will _understands_. He does. He understands that he's at the disadvantage here and Hannibal is attempting to be respectful and even the playing field. Hannibal is giving up control, some control at least, to make him feel at ease, but is Will ready for such a thing? Hannibal isn't his stag where he can command, ' _Kill_ ' and have beast take off...

But he is, isn't he? He would. Will had ordered him down to his knees. Hannibal is trying to be careful even now. To not push or take, but it has Will fraying.

* * *

Perhaps Will's reaction is the only one that makes sense, when Hannibal truly thinks about it. He's been tentatively treating Will, courting the idea of a care they'd never truly shared together. He's been making a point to sterilize and glove his hands metaphorically before each interaction, for Will is infected and Hannibal attempting to drain the poison. It's a poignant metaphor, one that definitely holds water as Hannibal keeps his hand tight over Will's abdomen, keeps him still. Every hiss is more poison bleeding from the wound, every reckless, terrifying action nothing more than the infection attempting to re-solidify its hooks in this man. It makes sense to expect that and more, and as Hannibal muses on it, as Will's body flexes against his out of a sort of desperation, Hannibal thinks back to how aggressively certain infections had needed to be treated. Lancing the wound, draining the poison, making the victim feel sick and weak as they struggled through recovery... Hannibal doesn't want to do that for Will, but he wonders idly if perhaps his metaphor is more apt than even he had known. The only difference is that Will's infection isn't on his body. It's in his soul.

Hannibal feels Will squirm against him and he presses down harder to still him, thoughtful. A test to his theory, in a sense. And so when Will grits out his answer, as thrilling a concept as it is - that Will _loves_ him - Hannibal also feels the answering twist in his chest. He knows his own truth, but bringing it to his lips is another matter entirely. The words do make him still, and he listens carefully as Will speaks. Perhaps Hannibal can't see the picture Will makes, but he can feel his tension, his distress. It means he's more willing to listen. And while Will's gritted admission is not simple to hear, Hannibal still considers it, thoughtful, and then slowly nods his head. Will can't see it, can't feel it, but Hannibal still thinks on what he's said.

Will wants to hurt him. He doesn't want the power over him. It's a reckless admission and yet somehow it makes perfect sense. In the past, despite the shared moments of kindness and fond regard, Hannibal had still been himself. He'd sent Tier after Will, had burned his mind, had killed Abigail. He'd allowed a fit of curiosity to prompt Will into Margot's path and had allowed himself a moment of jealousy to ruin it. In the romanticized version of his mind, in the last year, Hannibal hasn't reflected on those moments. He'd found himself musing instead over shared dinners, calm conversation, late nights in Hannibal's kitchen, glasses of wine in the living room. He'd let himself remember Will's beautiful mind, his cutting insight. Yet as he looks down at Will, at the man curled in his arms, the final few pieces slot into place.

The scar under his hands is tactile and Hannibal strokes his thumb along the clothes-covered edge of it. An act of violence, of abandonment. _Will_ hadn't been recalling fond memories these last few months. It makes sense, then, that the concept of equality - of _power_ \- feels improper to him. The only issue is something far more simple. Does Hannibal _want_ the inequality? Or does the concept of being on equal footing with this man appeal more? His frown is deeper as he strokes over the scar, contemplative.

"Would you prefer being manipulated? Remaining on unequal footing, Will? Do you feel comforted by the thought of my cruelty? Or, perhaps," Hannibal adds, a little softer, "do you simply not know how to respond to being given a choice? Worn and used by everyone fortunate enough to cross your path. Used up and cast aside. That _is_ what you've grown accustomed to, is it not? Tell me... _why_ do you want to hurt me, Will? Is it because you want to, or because I won't hurt _you?_ "

* * *

In the kitchen, the idea of power over Hannibal had been a curious, foreign thing. Tempting, curling around his mind like a heady smoke. He hadn't been able to resist pulling the strings. _Being_ Hannibal. Getting Hannibal to confess Bedelia's influence. Getting Hannibal to pin him against the wall. Getting Hannibal to talk about murdering the wench. Getting Hannibal to lick him clean. Suck him hard. Choke him and jerk him off. Will had taken control, orchestrated the entire event. Hannibal had been trapped by him, entranced and pulled in. A fire that called to Hannibal, a siren's song, but now that dark desires have passed, murderous musings have dulled, Will finds himself at odds with the concept of equality and having power over Hannibal.

It's wrong. It's not what he’s used to. Even while playing both sides, Will hadn't felt powerful with the knowledge of attempting to trap Hannibal. It had been a last ditch effort to do Jack's bidding. To do good. Be good. Now he's seen that that's only a shade of him. A streak of light in his darkness. Oh, murder is ugly, but it's also a visceral experience that rewards him with a rush. Hurting - killing - bad people... that's his niche. That's where he wants to operate. He'll never be able to kill like Hannibal, but he is a killer, isn't he? He doesn't have the numbers like Hannibal, he doesn't have the desire to create works of art from bodies (but he can appreciate them, he can understand).

A thumb strokes the scar and Will wants to wiggle against it. He wants to shout at Hannibal to dig in, to grow claws and pierce his skin. To rip him open again. It's ludicrous. It's insane. Thoughts that are along the lines of picking up a fillet knife and bringing it to his throat. Will says nothing as Hannibal considers what he's been told. Hannibal wants equality, but Will doesn't know if that's what he wants. (If that's what he's _ready_ for.)

 _'Do you feel comforted by the thought of my cruelty?'_ Yes... The answer is fucking yes, and Will is opening his mouth to affirm it, but then Hannibal continues, his voice softening. A choice... He hadn't had the choice before. Hannibal did whatever Hannibal wanted to do. Hannibal played them all, hurt whoever, spilled blood. A terrible, beautiful God with no concern for the lesser around him. Hannibal hadn't cared about consequences, about the destruction he wrought.

"There is nothing soft or tender for us here," Will whispers. "Maybe in the beginning... Maybe when I believed a lie. Caring doctor, a friend, my paddle. Maybe there could have been then, but not now. Not after you've betrayed and killed and gutted. You don't get your fucking rosy ending where we're magically all right and equal."

* * *

Two steps forward, one step back. A slow, steady increase, worth the struggle despite the issues with it. But what is to be done when it's two steps back? Or three? Or ten? There's a bitterness blooming in Hannibal's chest like hot blood seeping from a deep wound in slow, steady pulses. He doesn't move beyond the position he's in, his expression drawn, a weight settling in on his shoulders that he can hardly begin to quantify. The weight of loss upon one's shoulders following a death is simple. It's an end, a clear cut. This is far more brutal, like tearing a limb free, a forced, serrated separation that curls like claws through Hannibal's chest. Is there any point in pushing forward if he's only going to lose ground in the end? Perhaps not. Yet Hannibal still knows that despite this new blossoming bitterness and weight in his chest, he's still going to try. The definition of insanity. His smile is a quick slash, ugly in its mirthlessness, and he leans in once more to press his chin to Will's shoulder, breathing him in.

Given his realization, this isn't a surprise. Will is equally as bitter and he has every right to be, yet Hannibal cannot properly put into words just how grand his disappointment grows. Once, sharing meals, the _thought_ of a future, he had dared to hope. For once, he had allowed his facade to drop. Yes, he'd manipulated mildly in order to assist with Mason's delicate reconstruction. Yet that night he'd served the lamb, Hannibal had dropped it all. He'd been ready to run, to burn his life to the ground, to lay his hand on the line, to open himself up. Will's betrayal had stung deeper for that reason. In a way, Hannibal isn't certain the sting has abated. Maybe it had just been for those few hours, those few days, but in his mind, for once, he and Will had been akin to equals. Will had 'killed' for him, had broken bread, had lingered by his side. For once, he'd allowed himself the _thought_ of not being alone.

How dangerous whims can be when one allows them to take hold.

The fillet knife at Will's throat, the bitten-off command to let him go, Will's standoffish behavior... none of it holds a candle to the lash delivered by his words like this. Were Hannibal a lesser man, his mirthless smile would have been akin to rictus.

"You would prefer to force yourself to your knees and eat from the floor than to entertain me at the table," Hannibal translates. His tone is absolutely neutral, not even a waver to denote anger, disappointment, or happiness. There is nothing. He holds Will still, though the urge to withdraw and dismiss him from the room still stands. Hannibal's arms ache with the desire to cast him out, and there's a petulant part of him that wishes to brush his teeth once more, to eradicate even the psychological evidence of the belief they could be equal. Yet despite the repulsion, despite the _catacombs_ all over again, this time he merely tightens his hold on Will. His fingers claw, pressing enough to almost bruise, and he leans down to breathe in the scent of Will's hair, his stubble scratching sharp over the nape of Will's neck.

"Very well, then. It appears that neither of us get our 'rosy ending'. If you're against the concept of equality, I cannot force it. Though that means I have no need to cater to your whims."

* * *

It feels a little bit like opening up Pandora's Box. Will doesn't know what to expect, what's going to happen going forward and how far reaching the consequences will be. Maybe he's digging himself a hole here, maybe later he's going to fucking eat his words one by one. Maybe he's poisoning the well and there will be no way to purify it. He knows he's displeasing Hannibal. Disappointing him. And Will doesn't necessarily want it, it's not like he enjoys letting anyone down, but there's a smudge on his heart that hones in on the knowledge that he's _denying_ Hannibal something. He feels petulantly proud.

(Oh, Will can imagine what Hannibal had wanted, had fucking _yearned_ for... He'd wanted the quiet dinners, the lingering, meaningful gazes shared between them. He'd wanted the thoughtful conversation, Will's sly quips about _meat_. The Will presented to Hannibal prior to the a teacup shattering again and everything going to Hell in a handbasket. He'd wanted Will stronger and fiercer. Cracks adding to his beauty, not marring him and breaking him apart. Once again Will's not enough.)

Is it his fault that he can't equate kindness to Hannibal? That the idea of _him_ giving permission is one he wants to balk at? There may be love, but love doesn't fix anything. Love doesn't make anything easier and fault and blame don't matter either. This is where they find themselves, at a crossroads, bitter and unrelenting...

Hannibal is curled against him, arms tight and possessive. Will doesn't know if he'd go that far -- going to the floor to eat... But he has knelt multiple times now. He understands what Hannibal is getting at though. Will's pretty sure he doesn't want to be treated like shit, but he doesn't want to be a part of Hannibal's picture perfect gentleman murder club either. Where does this leave him? Apparently Hannibal's fingers pressing harder on his skin, apparently Hannibal's mouth rubbing against his neck, permission now be damned.

"You'd prefer me nice and steady, all sharp eyes, sharp angles, but my mind open to you. Willing to build up trust, to work on a foundation between the two of us," Will murmurs, his voice a little breathless, a little docile. He purposefully rubs his ass against Hannibal's crotch, he arches the best he can. He basks in Hannibal, he tries to find some measure of comfort in the touch and scent. "But I think you'll take whatever you can get of me. You'll take the scraps."

Will doesn't know when he's become a little turned on, but it's there, heart rate having increased, boxers a little tight. It's probably at the pain, at the discomfort, but maybe it's at turning the tables on Hannibal. Maybe he _is_ this messed up. "I love you, Hannibal. You don't even have to say it back. I know. I _know_."

* * *

It is disappointing. It's a favorite object returning to him marred and scratched too deep to restore to its original state without years of hard work. As Hannibal lays there with his hand possessive over Will's abdomen, he wonders if it's worth it. The teacup had come to him apparently repaired but shoddily. It's broken still. It's only managed to patch itself up enough to _look_ whole, and Hannibal finds that he's torn between withdrawing and demanding Will leave him or simply ensuring he remains. Is a broken creature better than none at all? A moral dilemma for the ages, perhaps. Will is still physically here, his presence, his warmth, his scent, his voice, but he's a shell. Afraid of Hannibal, reckless, inflated with an inaccurate sense of his importance. Hannibal is aware that his response is purely petulance and yet in this moment, as _lovers_ is ripped away from him and replaced with _tolerance_ , he cannot help himself.

He closes his eyes. Bitterness be damned, Will still feels the same, still smells the same. His injuries add a sour cast to the scent and disappointment makes Hannibal's own injuries seem that much more unpleasant, but he'll manage. He'd offered Will equal footing and Will had turned it down. Building a foundation... perhaps it is an impossible endeavor. He's bitter, angry that Will hadn't told him before and - under the surface - there's a disappointment of a difference sort. He has Will's love (a twisted, gnarled oak with branches too thin to do anything but lash and sever) but is it enough? Hannibal is beginning to think it isn't. What use is Will's love without his mind? Without being able to reach across to him and find a hand he doesn't have to strain to hold from how low Will has positioned himself?

The bitter irony is that Hannibal's feelings remain. He wishes once again that he could damn them. Even knowing how little Will cares, Hannibal still wants to slaughter Bedelia for her manipulation, still wants Will with _him_. He'd assumed Will had reveled in his violence because he'd considered himself Hannibal's equal, spurring on the destruction. He'd been mistaken, and the bitterness burns.

He's distracted enough by his own disappointment that he honestly doesn't scent the change to the air. He only realizes that Will has grown hard again when he feels that first press back against him. Will arches against him, squirming, and his words are breathless and taunting. Hannibal _does_ want Will steady, his eyes sharp, his mind open. He wants Will to _try_. Yet as he feels Will squirm against him and finally, idly takes note of Will's pulse and the way his boxers have begun to tent, he decides that Will _doesn't_ want to try. He wants to feel. And as bitter as Hannibal is, Will Graham will always be the exception. Despite his own disappointment, Hannibal merely gives himself a few moments to adjust to this new slash in his reality. Then his hand finally dips lower. He slides his hand down over the front of Will's boxers and squeezes, almost enough to hurt but definitely enough to be felt.

"And your love is enough?" Hannibal asks, voice still flat. "Love implies a tenderness, at the least an equality. You don't love me. You need. You obsess... I suppose that will have to be enough."

It's not. It never will be.

For a moment, Hannibal considers angling his hips away. He's not hard; there's a petulant part of him that doesn't want to share this with Will. Yet in his heart, Hannibal is still a selfish man. He grinds his teeth together quietly, closes his eyes tighter, and presses in closer.

"I wonder how long you've known. How long you allowed me to try. Perhaps your empathy simply makes your cruelty rival my own. Would you have let me continue to hope, Will? Does the idea that you've hurt me give you pleasure? Or perhaps you have no idea. Perhaps you're so in flux, so wrapped around your own mind that your whims and desires change by the minute. Perhaps you simply need me to be cruel because you're terrified of the alternative. Selfish. Parasitic." Hannibal's exhale rustles the hair at the nape of Will's neck. His voice is still flat. "You remember your words. Say them and you can go. I keep my word."

* * *

He's not enough, he's not what Hannibal wishes for, but Hannibal won't discard him. He won't be left behind again in a kitchen or in the catacombs. Maybe he'll have an expiry date, maybe Hannibal won't be able to accept or tolerate him forever, but for now... For now Will's pretty damn sure Hannibal wants to keep him close. It's not that big of a shock to Will's system that he's not enough as he is right now. He'd often felt inadequate in his life. Better with dogs than with dating. Better with crime scene photos than being a team player. It's par for the course. The same old tune.

Love makes Hannibal weak, weak enough to accept a non-ideal and Will is going to benefit from it for as long as he can. He makes soft sound as Hannibal's hand travels down and grips the beginning of his erection. It's a little too hard, but he'd rather have that than the touch too soft. It's attention nonetheless and Will still feels starved from the lack of Hannibal. Maybe this is his binge. An evening of overindulgence. Christ, he doesn't know what tomorrow holds or the next day. Will can't even bring himself to think about it. Pandora's box sprung open, his ugliness revealed, what consequences lie hidden and waiting now?

Apparently _hurt_ is one of them. Hannibal's voice is cold, withholding. His words - claiming that it _isn't_ love - they hurt. Need? Obsession? Yes, but Will knows that there's love too. There's got to be love, why else would he... _'I suppose that will have to be enough.'_ Even Will knows that's a lie and as Hannibal continues to talk, arousal mixes with dread, with hurt, and isn't this what he wanted? What he's been expecting in some way? He'd rather have physical pain, but emotional will do. For now.

He's called cruel. He's called selfish. Parasitic. Will's eyes sting so he squeezes them shut tightly. His throat feels thick of emotion. He feels a little sick to his stomach, but he's awash in Hannibal and still a little aroused. Maybe he likes the blade shoved inside of him, maybe it's all he really knows. Will is shaking in Hannibal's hold. He doesn't really know if he wants Hannibal to touch him. Hannibal isn't even fucking _interested._ He has 'good grief.' He could end this. Flee... but then what?

"You do it so well, though," Will whispers. "My lover's ever skilled at being cruel."

He's meant to be gutted and left. He's meant to be kissed and pushed from a train. He's meant to be observed while his mind burned. He's meant to be choked and laid to rest. There's beauty in his pain. He'll make Hannibal see it. He'll make Hannibal want it.

* * *

It's too far, but then, where is the line between them? For anyone else, Hannibal carving a rictus grin into the soft flesh of an abdomen would have been 'too far', but not for Will Graham. No. Hannibal leaves him gutted, holding himself together in the most literal sense, carving their surrogate daughter out of both of their lives, and Will tracks him down to _be_ with him. Through that filter, is it any wonder that Will recoils against the idea of kindness? The idea of _care?_ Hannibal understands, but his mind is split between the logical and the emotional. There is no 'wise mind' for him to fall back on in this moment. It's all a bitter emotion, a disappointment, though as Hannibal holds Will firm and stills his squirming, he wonders which of them he's truly disappointed in. Will, for following his nature, or himself, for damning his own.

He's not kind. His words are cruel. A petulant lash in return. Hannibal wishes Will to hurt, as he had wished Will to hurt that night in the kitchen. He's not a _kind_ man when he lets his guard down, and perhaps that is what is truly agonizing about this moment. Will had been back in his life for only a few weeks and Hannibal's guard had been so easily dropped. So willing to open himself up to this creature. A man who wears a mask like his own and yet has no intention to be his. Chiyoh's proverbial fox.

With his eyes closed, Hannibal's other senses climb higher. He smells the bitter tang of emotion between them, and he knows without looking - without feeling - that Will's eyelashes are damp. He wishes only that he could take pleasure from the knowledge. There's a bitter satisfaction, but it's not pleasure. It's hollow, unnecessary. He doesn't want to have Will like _this_ , where the only intimacy they can share is bitten-off words and rough hands. He thinks back to the soft press of Will's lips, to how much he'd ached for more, and yet now that he has this man on his bed, pressed flush to him physically and yet miles away emotionally, he misses that soft press of lips. (Something tells him that hadn't been a farce. It's the main source of his doubt, but he's angry, he's hurt, and he doesn't want to look too deeply into it).

So he touches instead. He holds Will close. He buries his face against his nape and breathes in the sour tang of emotion as his hand curls between Will's legs. Hannibal sets his palm against the rise in Will's boxers, feels the heat of his cock, and he presses down, rubbing slow but firm. He wants (needs) more than Will is willing to give, but Will had been right. He'll take the scraps. He winds his free arm around Will, bracing his forearm hard over his chest while being mindful of Will's shoulder. It's solely to keep him still as Hannibal's lips press to Will's nape and his hand moves insistently over Will's cock, undulating, coaxing him into physical hardness despite the sting of emotion.

' _You do it so well, though. My lover's ever so skilled at being cruel.'_ Will says, and Hannibal's hand presses in closer to the front of his boxers, almost punishing.

"How fortunate for us both that it seems mine is as well," Hannibal murmurs against the back of Will's neck. He inches in closer, and while the desire to lose himself in this doesn't exist, Hannibal still presses himself along Will's back, feeling the flex of muscle, feeling the way Will's ass presses up against him. He could angle away, could remain aloof, but he doesn't. Instead Hannibal rolls his hips, feeling the burn along the skin of his back, feeling half-present, but if this is all he gets, he'll still take it. It takes effort to fight past the bitterness and allow himself to focus on the physical sensations. They're not good the way they were downstairs, when he'd felt connected, but it's something.

"Is it easier for you this way, Will? Detached? No emotion to get in the way of your desire? Or is this simply your current desire? You fear me, yet you want to be close. You want to kill, yet wish to muzzle me. You crave the knowledge of my desire, my devotion, and yet spit on your own. Do you even _know_ what you want, Will? Or are you spiraling?"

* * *

Since arriving here, maybe there had been a layer of foundation forming for them. Hannibal had been trying at least. Something thin and delicate, impermanent, but not now. Will has taken a sledgehammer to it. Will has made deep cracks, swinging with reckless abandonment. Will now mirrors Hannibal and destroys. Destructive. (He's had the best to learn from.) Hannibal can add that to the growing list. Perhaps masochistic and foolish too. They'll have a dictionary of Will Graham terms. All the ways he disappoints Hannibal and turns the table. Reckless. Tempestuous. Demanding. Unfair. The words swirl in his mind, adding weight and another nail into the coffin.

He doesn't want to cry. He's not going to cry. Will takes in a shuddering breath. He'll hold it together. He'd cried in the kitchen, lives bleeding out, lives ending. Lives betrayed. It'd been an appropriate time for a few anguished tears to escape. But he hadn't cried in the catacombs. He'd been to fucking stunned. Too busy being betrayed and choked out. Will doesn't like crying. He'd been allowed to cry until he was around eleven or twelve, then his Father had told him to "keep that shit in" and to "swallow it down." Will knows it's completely normal to cry. It's all right, even, but he'd prefer to follow his dad's advice.

Hannibal holds him, his mouth against the back of Will's neck, breathing in his scent deeply while his hand moves and encourages the hardness found underneath boxers. Hannibal's other arm comes to cage him against his chest and then there's a kiss against his nape and Will bites down on the insides of his cheek. He swallows it down. He's had years of practice doing so. They're both cruel lovers, aren't they? Hannibal is right, it's another common thread running between them. Will tenses when he feels Hannibal's hips rub against his ass. He hadn't been sure Hannibal would even attempt to participate in this. Will knows Hannibal is warring between wanting to push him away and accept scraps, but it seems like the latter is winning out. Will is such a mess he doesn't even know how he feels about it. Is it a victory? Is it something he's proud over? Not really. Hannibal's hand persists in moving and Will's jerks into the pressure.

_'Is it easier for you this way, Will? Detached? ... Do you even know what you want, Will? Or are you spiraling?'_

"Those are good questions," Will comments, voice edged with desperation and quavering. A half-laugh follows. Fucked up, fucked up... "I'd like to know too, but if this is easy, I wouldn't want to know what difficult feels like." He's certain he's feeling far too much, a reservoir of twisted whims and broken dreams and Hannibal is his gravity, inescapable, pulling him down and Will doesn't know why he's fighting so much, but he is because how dare Hannibal Lecter get anything easy and neat? He must then reach a snapping point because Will goes rigid and attempts to free himself, more effort put in than any other attempt.

"Fuck, fuck!" He's cursing as he all but thrashes.

* * *

 _Good grief_. Two small words with a huge meaning. Two words and Hannibal will let go, will allow Will to retreat back into his room and lock himself away. Despite all this, despite the discomfort and the hurt and the emotional distress, Hannibal had issued Will a promise. In the instructions for Will to pick a word, he'd silently promised to abide by those rules. That opinion hasn't changed. Hannibal _will_ let go if he must, if Will forces the issue. However as he holds Will there, locked into place, Will doesn't say those two words. Instead his voice is raw, desperate, almost shivering. There's oceans of emotion in those few short words and Hannibal hates that he _cares_. Perhaps this is nothing more than more recklessness on Will's part but Hannibal still treats it like it isn't. Will wants the choice taken away, wants to be hurt, wants Hannibal to be _cruel_ , and that is precisely what he's going to do unless Will says otherwise.

So when Will suddenly goes rigid in his arms, Hannibal listens for those two damnable words, for the proof that once again Will wishes only to retreat, but they don't come. Instead Will lurches in his arms and the pressure against Hannibal's back makes his grip briefly falter as pain curls sharp through him. Then he merely grinds his teeth and solidifies his hold, yanking Will back tight against his chest with a sound that is nearly a growl. It's a breath of effort, of a struggle, and Hannibal grabs tightly at Will's undershirt, palm flat against his chest as he holds him in check. Will twists and writhes and thrashes and the pain is sharp and bitter but Hannibal merely holds on tighter.

In a way this is an interesting reminder. He _is_ stronger than Will is. Will's legs kick and thrash and Hannibal throws one of his own legs over Will's to keep it pinned to the bed. It's not his injured one, but given how tightly he needs to lock his muscles, it may as well be. His hand splays low over Will's clavicle, his arm keeping him from being able to twist away. He hears Will's rough cursing, hears the desperation, and Hannibal merely crushes him tighter to his chest. It's not those two words, and he knows that Will knows them. If he's not saying them, this is part of it. Perhaps Will needs to hurt. He clearly wants it. Better by Hannibal's hands than his own.

Through it all, Hannibal's other hand remains pressed firmly between Will's legs. Every squirm, every thrashing buck of his hips is akin to a grinding stroke. Hannibal feels the squirming against his body, can feel himself reacting, but it's distant. He's attracted to Will's body, yes, but his true attraction had been to this man's mind. Without the extra connection, it's just physical. There's power in this, it does feel good, he _is_ getting hard, but right now it's just him reaching for scraps.

"You know how to stop this. You know what to say. I can only assume you don't _want_ to stop. You _need_ to feel contained. To have the control taken away from you."

* * *

Will knows he has an out. He knows Hannibal would stop. Hannibal is no rapist. Will has a safeword for a reason. Two fucking words and Hannibal would let him go. But Will doesn't want that. Hasn't he been alone for too long? They both have. Too many months apart, an ocean apart, even apart in this beautiful home along the water. It's been weeks, and until this evening they've pretty much behaved (save for one delicate kiss that was barely a kiss). It almost feels like Will wants to attempt to make up for lost time.

He wants to struggle. He wants to feel Hannibal all over him, hands gripping, arms pressing -- a mess of limbs and bodies bumping and grinding together. Hannibal doesn't disappoint. Hannibal doesn't let him get away. His shoulder throbs from jolting it and Wills aware that this isn't smart for either of them. A leg is thrown over his own and Will is clutched tighter to Hannibal's chest. The compression is painful and uncomfortable, but has an element of security to it. It probably should be frightening to know that Hannibal could overpower him, but it's not.

Maybe it's the exact opposite, actually.

Will registers that Hannibal is getting a little hard and he doesn't know if it's just from _him_ or if it's the precarious position they're currently in. Will's only grown harder and he has the distinct feeling he's more messed up than he originally thought. Will's chest is heaving, he feels more aroused but also a little sick because of it. Hannibal's words pull a smile from Will and it lessens his struggle.

"Don't want... this to-to stop," Will pants out. He licks his at his lips. His eyes open and he blinks rapidly. At least he doesn't feel the urge to cry anymore. He's trying to get his bearings but he feels on the edge. "Please," he adds on. "Has to be you. Only you." Will's not into begging, but he's trying to... Trying to what exactly? Pander to Hannibal? Prove how despicable he really can be? How desperate?

* * *

How far will he allow himself to fall for this man? How many injuries will he obtain? How sick will he allow himself to get? If Will's recklessness and bitterness is an infection deep within his soul, surely being so close to him will risk passing it on. Yet despite the risk, despite the danger, Hannibal remains close, his hands metaphorically ungloved as they grip at Will with no true care to whether or not Will is contagious. Instead Hannibal grips him tight, mindless of the damage being done. His back is a measure of agony with every wrenching twist of Will's body, and Hannibal's attempt to pin Will's legs is half to keep him centered and half to lessen the force he can get behind each twist. Hannibal is still injured, still weaker following Mason's little plan and Hannibal's altercation with Jack and yet he still manages to hold Will in place.

(He hates it, but there's a small part of him that feels almost hopeful. A dog lifting its head at the sound of a car door slam, ever hopeful that its master will return.) Will hasn't used his words. He's not stopping this. Hannibal's words are still tight, still laced with his own bitterness, but Will isn't stopping this. That means something, and Hannibal isn't sure what. Perhaps Will just needs to use more of him, to take and take until there's nothing left. Or, perhaps, if only in a small corner of his mind, Will is not so conflicted. The thought is dangerous considering Hannibal's claims. Just as Will had taken a proverbial sledgehammer to their budding foundation, Hannibal's words have cut through thick hide like the scalpels he so often favors. If he allows himself his hope, he then has to wonder whether their damage has been irreparable.

It's something to consider for later. In that moment, Hannibal throws himself into this struggle, muscles tense and sore, breathing a little harder, and through it all he doesn't move his hands away. He feels Will grow harder, feels the swell of his cock, the insistent, almost guilty press of it against Hannibal's palm. It isn't until Will finally answers him, his voice panted, almost melodic despite its need and reediness. Hannibal listens to the way Will begs (and he _is_ begging) and despite his bitterness, despite his hurt, he cannot deny a lance of heat at the words. Hannibal eyes the tossed scraps between them and he knows in that moment that he has a choice. Yet as he breathes in the scent of Will's desperation - his sweat, his lingering tears, his stress - he knows he's already discarded that choice.

"Of course it has to be me," Hannibal says, and his voice is overly-warm with effort, his lips glancing over the shell of Will's ear, tone strained as he holds tight. "You let me in. For all your self-righteousness, all your petulance, you still let me in." Hannibal's hand shifts then. Like a coiled vice, he snaps it up to Will's throat, pressing in but not delivering any kind of pressure that Will might want. Instead the hand between Will's legs suddenly shifts and Hannibal squeezes, stroking quick through Will's boxers, thumb pressed almost too hard against the outline stretched tight over the head of Will's cock.

"Your mind is a miasma of color and guilt and desires you still wish to deny yourself. Even _knowing_ I would kill for you, that I have, even _wanting_ , you withdraw and lash out. Is the concept of my care _that_ repulsive, Will? Would you sooner degrade yourself than speak with me candidly? Was every part of it a lie, or just most of it?"

* * *

Any self-preservation is long gone, the well dried up. Self-respect is is MIA too. Will doesn't even care. At least not right now. Tomorrow Chiyoh will likely give him scornful looks, judgmental dark eyes following him as he enters and exits the shared areas. He'll deal with it. Will assumes she wouldn't be so bold to call him out on anything. Hannibal, however... That would be an amusing conversation to listen in on. Pretentious metaphors and the like...

He may have entertained a few ideas of what Hannibal dominating him could entail, but it certainly hadn't involved anything like this. Hannibal isn't exactly _willing_. Hannibal is reacting. Trying to manage him the best. Like he's some child throwing a tantrum. Will should care, shouldn't he? He's never begged before, but he probably would have given the chance beneath the Norman Chapel. Just how far has he fallen? Just how far has love pushed him? There's probably no answer for the questions... Would Will even want to know if there were?

Hannibal's voice is smooth and tempting, murmured into his ear. And then Hannibal's hand whips up to this neck and Will startles. He's not choked, though. But before Will can try and figure out Hannibal's game, his other hand rubs quicker against his cock, the pressure almost too much and Will gasps out a strangled cry. He tries to focus on Hannibal's words -- miasma, guilt, desire, deny, repulsive... A lie?

What?

Will jerks unhappily, breathing harder and trying to wrap his head around what Hannibal _thinks_ is going on. "What.... What do you think I'm lying about?" Will asks. He needs to know. They've been talking, yeah, but it's mostly been accusations and lashing out. He's not exactly certain what conclusion Hannibal has taken away from it all. As they've been facing away from each other, it's it trickier to read Hannibal. Confused arousal swirls with trepidation, but Will still doesn't use his safeword. He needs to know.

* * *

If this is what Will needs, Hannibal will give it to him. He'd risked getting caught in Florence simply so Will could find him, could catch up. He'd risked himself again at Muskrat Farm in order to save Will's life and _keep_ it. Bitter as Hannibal is, angry as he is, a life with Will - even half of one - is better than nothing at all. Hannibal had tried to end him and the resulting guilty shock had almost carved into him. He doesn't mind the brand upon his back as it will serve as a reminder. With every twist of Will's body, Hannibal's back hurts sharper and yet he doesn't squeeze. He doesn't twist, he doesn't rend and tear because his back is a reminder of what life without Will had been.

Perhaps Hannibal is a wild animal, still feral despite his appearance, but Will's collar is still firmly, bitterly around his neck. So he doesn't stop. He doesn't give thought to his own words as Will thrashes and Hannibal holds him tight. If Will wants to struggle against pleasure he seems to want, Hannibal will play along.

Yet when Will's struggling suddenly hits a roadblock, when he jerks and then seems to still as if confused, Hannibal's not certain what has calmed Will down. He replays what he'd said and immediately he believes he understands. Will protests the idea that Hannibal cares for him, and he's about managed to draw breath to defend that position when Will beats him to the question. The only issue is... he's not asking the question Hannibal had expected.

Instead Will's curious about what he's lying about and Hannibal's lips thin. He stills, breathing hard against the lingering force it had taken to keep Will still, but even he is almost relieved for this brief break. Physically, anyway; emotionally he doesn't enjoy the concept of this conversation.

"Perhaps not what you _are_ lying about, but what you were," Hannibal murmurs back, and his voice is blessedly neutral. There's bitterness and anger swirling within, but barring the mild tremble to his hands, he doesn't let it show. "Everything back in Baltimore. Your budding darkness. Tier. The gun in your hand. Wanting to leave with me. You claim there's nothing soft or tender for us here. No rosy ending where we forgive in our equality. There once was that possibility. We lived it. Or we appeared to. Unless _that_ was all a lie." Hannibal draws a slow breath, and while he attempts to keep his tone neutral, he can't quite manage it. "I would have left with you that evening. No sacrifice. Nothing. I knew, then, and I would have anyway. I would have forgiven you that. So you'll forgive me my bitterness, Will. And as always, I applaud your acting. Everything downstairs, Bedelia, your own darkness... you've clearly not lost your skill. Still as convincing as ever."

* * *

Will listens to Hannibal's reply, Hannibal spilling his disappoint that he's not the sharper man he'd presented before the phone call and betrayals, before sacrifices and bloodshed and then the poignant absence of each other. Will had had his anger to mould him, he'd had thoughts of vengeance to help him stay in form. He'd dressed a little nicer, played a little harder. He'd been Hannibal's friend, closer to an equal then ever before, drank his wine, ate at his table. He'd smiled at Hannibal, charmed him, he'd been intriguing and continued to pique Hannibal's curiosity.

Maybe that's the man Hannibal loves. Not who he was before (trusting and pathetic) or who he is now (fractured and depraved). It's a stone in his stomach. It's an uncomfortable cramp to even entertain the notion that Hannibal only loves an ideal. An imago.

But it hadn't necessarily been a _complete_ lie. Tier hadn't been (he'd enjoyed putting down a rabid animal). The warning phone call and the aching conflict of wanting to run away with Hannibal had been real. He’s off kilter, breathing rapidly as his mind tries to sort out Hannibal's own connections, Hannibal's beliefs about him... Then Hannibal mentions _downstairs_ and darkness and Bedelia and Will frowns. Hannibal thinks he's been acting, lying, more deception...

"You're an idiot if you think it was all acting," Will blurts out, shaking with emotion. He struggles a little just to feel Hannibal's hold. "A part of me _did_ want to run away with you. Why the hell would I phone to try and warn you if not? I wanted you to leave, to not be- not be killed. Jack knew. They traced the call. You can imagine he was less than thrilled that I had done it. He asked me why." Will swallows quickly before pressing on. "I told him because you were my friend... Because I wanted to run away with you."

Will doesn't want to think of the lamb supper. Of the chance to slip away and if he had Abigail would be--

"And I wasn't lying downstairs," Will insists. "I want _that_. I just... I'm not that version of myself that you apparently crave so much. Back in Baltimore, self-composed and focused. I don't know what I am now, but I'm sorry you're stuck with whatever it is. I'm sorry I'm a mess. That I can't be sharp and clear and decisive and you don't believe me." Will sighs.

He feels far too exposed now and it's with a frantic edge he says, " _Good grief_. Okay? I'll leave you alone. I'll stop."

* * *

It's unkind. To bring this up now, when Will is vulnerable and aching for things they've not discussed is also unwise, but Hannibal is not always the perfectly-poised man he presents to the world. He can be swayed. He can be fooled. As Will has so accurately proven, he can be hurt. Perhaps that's what this is, or perhaps this is simply the darkness swaddling them both like newborns. This could simply be the new reality and everything is far too raw to properly discern. From intense, volatile emotions downstairs to a spat command for him to let go, followed by the farce of comfort hours later. This isn't healthy, isn't helpful in any way, and yet Hannibal's hold is still possessive. Even if Will is acting, even if this is nothing more than a punishment for the events before eight months ago, so be it.

Yet just as the thought is settling into Hannibal's mind like one attempting to find comfort on a bed of thorns, Will's breathing suddenly shifts and his struggling rekindles. Hannibal compensates for it, but even with his strength, even with his own stubbornness, Will's wrenching twists this time are difficult to contain. Given what he's saying, that Hannibal finds himself distracted is no surprise. There's a part of him that wants to dismiss Will's sudden admissions - that Will had wanted to run away with him, that he _had_ called - but Hannibal, for all his petulance, is not quite _that_ petulant. He cannot be blind, regardless of how sometimes a lack of sight would be simpler. Instead he listens, still struggling to keep Will contained, but he's distracted. Despite all their conversations, all their artful sidestepping, Hannibal has never heard this. He's never heard of the aftermath of Will's phone call. In truth, he'd never considered the consequences.

He is now. It's likely a good thing that Will's struggling eases, for in that moment, Hannibal isn't certain he would have been able to hold Will steady. He considers what it must have looked like, Will calling him. Undoubtedly the fact that Will had been cut open had helped his case, but facing Jack's suspicion... it's a different angle. It means that when Will continues, insisting that he's a mess, that he's not self-composed and focused, Hannibal actually manages to wrestle his own bitterness back enough to consider Will's position. Which is, of course, when Will suddenly sighs and the words fall from his lips. _Good grief._

For a moment, Hannibal considers holding tighter. There's a spark of _something_ there, and the frustration he feels at Will attempting to duck away when he's only just scratched the surface is overwhelming. Yet in the end, Hannibal takes his hands away. He moves his hand away from the crux of Will's legs and lets him go, releasing his hold as he'd promised he would.

"I don't want you to leave me alone," Hannibal says, and he knows he sounds frustrated, but it's difficult to ignore. "I want you to _speak_ with me. I don't want you to talk at me, or make the appropriate noises. But," Hannibal adds, and the control it takes to form the next words is almost maddening. "I'll not force the issue. If you wish to leave, I won't stop you. I gave you my word."

* * *

True to his word, Hannibal releases him. Hands are pulled away, space is created and the sudden freedom is honestly jarring. Will lies there for a moment, dazed. He then eases himself into an a sitting position. Will doesn't even look at the closed door. Overheated, he flings the somewhat tangled bedsheet off of him. Will stares down at his hands. They're in his lap. He still has an erection. He still doesn't know what to do.

Hadn't that been his problem before? Of two minds, rife with indecision and toeing the line in regards to Hannibal. He'd waffled. With Jack, it had made sense to go after Hannibal. Will could see it, work toward it. Catch a notorious killer. Entrapment. Make Hannibal pay. Make him suffer. The villain deserved it.

But when he'd been with Hannibal, thoughts of vengeance became hazy, became almost secondary. He'd found himself a little captivated, a little less alone in their friendship. There had been a distance between them still, a line neither of them had crossed. They'd observed each other with interest. Hannibal had touched with light fondness, but it had all been just a little detached, a little safe.

They've crossed lines now and any lines that have been drawn are now blurred. Will breathes in slowly. It barely phases him that Hannibal wishes him to _not_ _go_. After all, Hannibal will accept scraps.

Will closes his eyes. He swallows it down. No tears. No more shaking and sweating and losing it. He's not dissolving. He's not jumping. He thinks of crystallization. Changing from one state to another. Liquid to a solid. He's got to change now. Adapt. Evolve. Become, right?

"You fell in love with that man, didn't you?" Will asks, voice calm, but melancholy. "The one eating at your dining room table, the one you shared long conversations with about darkness and the like." Will pulls himself together. He hardens. "Must have been a jolt to the system faced with such a fractured picture of myself."

He's staying and speaking. He hopes it's enough. He doesn't know what else to do.

* * *

There is very little in Hannibal's heart that believes Will is going to remain here. Catch and release. That's what this has been since its inception. Hannibal catches and lets go. Will does the same. In this sense it is merely literal, and though Hannibal's irritation over the concept of letting Will go is sharp and severe, he has no choice. He lets Will go and he fully believes that Will is going to leave. He has no reason to stay. So when Will doesn't immediately launch to his feet and run, Hannibal merely frowns at him. He watches as Will sits up, watches the way he remains tense. Hannibal doesn't move at first. His back and leg both throb and he's still a little breathless from his effort to keep Will steady. Still Will remains, and as the seconds tick by, Hannibal's frustration begins to ease into something wary and then something curious.

Hannibal isn't expecting Will to speak without being prompted. So when Will's voice rises, calm, a mixture of sadness and regret, Hannibal merely goes still. He hardly dares to breathe, both because this is Will _not_ running away and because the words are a painful jolt to his system.

 _'You fell in love with that man, didn't you?'_ Hannibal's lips thin. His jaw works for only a moment before he draws in a slow breath and then lets it out. He's not said the words because he doesn't want them to be true, but he's no fool. Given everything he's done, given how much Will Graham means to him, given what he's been willing to risk for him, is it even a surprise? No. That doesn't mean that Hannibal wants to hear it. It doesn't mean that he wants to think about it. It makes this interaction that much more difficult to manage. Yet even as Hannibal lays there and the words wash over him, he struggles to set the swell of emotion aside as this is finally something he can use.

"Was that not your intent?" Hannibal asks, rhetorically. "Surely the trap wouldn't have been as successful otherwise." There's bitterness there, under the surface. Yet despite the bitterness, Hannibal still reminds himself that at present, Will is _here_. He's not with Jack, he's made no move to bolt and vanish. He's here. Even if it is the recklessness within Will's mind, there is some part of him that wishes to remain close.

"Yet you discredit the both of us if you assume that iteration of yourself was the only one I was drawn to." Hannibal looks at the line of Will's back, at the wrinkles of his undershirt from where he'd struggled and strained in Hannibal's arms. Will had spoken of not wanting his control, and he'd lashed out. There's a tangled mess here, and Hannibal feels like he's finally found the end of Will's red thread. The only problem now is making Will remain long enough to attempt to untangle it. Not unwind them, but undo the knots at their center.

* * *

It would be so easy to leave. Too easy, really. Will could test their bond, pull on the thread, make it stretch and tense -- but he chooses not to. He'll stand his ground, so to speak. It's been weeks since they've arrived here. Save for meals, the mutual wound care and only the handful of times he's sought out Hannibal, he's been mostly alone. If anything Will feels like it's been worse on him. The pockets of solitude, the lack of touch and connection with the one person that he'd been desperate to find... It hasn't leant to any peace of mind, no respite for the weary.

His shoulder aches. His heart aches. But Will swallows it down. The pain is a reminder he's alive. The dead do not hurt, they do not struggle. It's almost tempting to think about how calm death's embrace would be, to think of it as a permanent reprieve from all of _this_. It would hurt Hannibal, destroy him even. There's beauty in denying someone's ultimate desire, of cutting so deep that there can be no stitches, no fixing. No mending and no saving.

But he's not suicidal. He's not giving up. After all they've been through, it's not time to quit. Hannibal has been found, the destination reached. Not a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, but that's fine. Will's long known that there isn't going to be anything soft and nice for him in his life. The world is cold and cruel and yeah he's tried to do some good, but Will knows what's lurking in his mind. He's chosen a killer. He's chosen madness. Throwing away his life and for what...

_'Yet you discredit the both of us if you assume that iteration of yourself was the only one I was drawn to.'_

"That may be the case, but you haven't been overly fond to my less put together self," Will replies matter-of-factly. He can't think of Hannibal having genuinely loved him in the beginning, when he managed to be naive and guarded at the same time. Nerves frayed, his do-good drive, his puppy eyes at Alana, the faith he'd had that Hannibal _actually_ was going to look out for him. He'd probably been amusing, like a pet.

Will swallows it down.

"Would you prefer things were civil like they had been before? Lingering looks, glancing touches? Undoubtedly safer." Will turns, looking at Hannibal. Maybe he can behave, curl in on himself, lock it up and keep it down...

* * *

Recklessness does not lend itself well to communication. That, ultimately, is the problem. For all their conversing, for all their isolation and closeness, they've had very little time to really talk. Admittedly part of that is Will's recklessness. Whenever Hannibal believes he's found something - some path on the ice not yet cracking under his feet - Will's mind recoils against it. Sudden lashing out, a fillet knife against a throat, taking on Hannibal's mind, sudden physical recklessness... Will doesn't respond well to kindness or neutrality and yet as Hannibal watches him, watches the picture he makes, he wonders if that's not exactly what Will needs. The infection within him has rotted him enough that debridement is necessary, and yet debridement will hurt. That Will continues to fight against him is not a surprise. Yet the issue still remains. What's to be done to build foundation if Will seeks only to destroy it?

It's tempting to let himself succumb to bitterness again, for Will's earlier words to drive a wedge between them. Yet despite Hannibal's petulance, he is aware that Will is not a man who speaks for himself often. If he's speaking now, there's a reason for it and he'll take advantage of the transparency while he can. So though hearing Will's comments is not particularly pleasant, Hannibal does him the service of listening. He watches Will in the dark, studies the set of his shoulders and his exposed back. Hannibal doesn't touch. Instead he merely allows himself to rest on the bed, still on his side, still allowing Will the freedom to sit up where he is. The distance might feel safer.

"I haven't been overly-fond of your need to sabotage yourself," Hannibal corrects. There's a part of him that wishes to speak softly but he dismisses it. Will doesn't seem willing to listen to kindness. "I care little that you find yourself in flux. Reckless and stubborn. Given the events of the past year, your reactions are not overly surprising. What I care about is the extent, and that you don't seem to know what you need."

Will turns to look at him then and Hannibal simply looks up at him. He doesn't shy away from Will's proximity, nor does he reach over and force contact. _Good grief_ had been used, and while normal safewords would be a pause to talk about something, that is not who they are. A word for them is a full-stop.

"You've asked for dominance and I had hoped it would help build a foundation again, but you push yourself too far and then recoil. I'm not surprised, but constantly seeking _more_ and pushing yourself past your point of comfort only to drop after isn't healthy for you, nor is it helpful for me. You want everything and yet you're nowhere near ready for it, and until you figure yourself out, I fear this will be an ouroboros, never-ending, constantly repeating." Hannibal breathes out then, a little sharper, strained but at least still present, not shutting down or kicking Will out. "As is stands, I don't know what is real and what isn't. Your whims change by the minute. You talk to me, but up until this moment, I'm not entirely certain you've been _communicating_ with me."

* * *

He could probably do it. Get into that headspace again. He could be that version of himself, the one that Hannibal prefers. The sharper Will. Contained. Present. Engaging, but a little distant. Will needs to do something, be something other than to ricochet like a ball in a pinball machine. He's not working. It's not working. Whoever he is now, fractured and desperate and confused, it's not working. His flaws are too glaring, his instability and reckless a nuisance and a burden. Hannibal's patience is not limitless. No one's is. Love has limits. Love isn't a cure.

The zipper hasn't been pulled. He'll keep himself tight and contained, his insides inside. Keep the crazy in the cell and throw away the key. Swallow it down, swallow it down. He's been doing it for years. He can do it now.

But hearing Hannibal's reply makes it difficult, adds some strain on his seams. Of course nothing would be easy. Why should it be? He holds Hannibal's look, resolute and determined to not break. No more shattering. No more falling to pieces. Enough about teacups.

"You don't handle the broken and desperate well," Will comments, although not unkindly. "Not that I blame you. Society as a whole doesn't care for such weakness. Despite how I may have formerly thought of you, you're only human and my inability to present any semblance of a unified person was undoubtedly jarring." Will rubs at his face. "It's jarring for me too. But I can do better." It's a shred of something he'll hold onto. Will feels a little better, a little calmer already. _This_ is better. If he just keeps talking and existing and not reaching out and wanting... He'll be fine. They'll be fine.

He'll exist like this. In Hannibal's orbit, simply conversing. Safer. Needing, desiring... It's brought out the ugly.

* * *

' _You don't handle the broken and desperate well... my inability to present any semblance of a unified person was undoubtedly jarring._ '

The words are said quietly, with a composure that gives Hannibal pause. Something about them seems out of place in that moment but Hannibal is not proud to admit that Will seeming put-together is a relief. It's tentative; Hannibal knows this won't last and yet he cannot help trying to chase after it just the same. He has no idea what these last few hours have been, how to handle everything that has been said and done. Yet there's something in those words that truly gets to him. It isn't the implication that he's not good with the desperate and the broken, though that does rankle given that he'd based an entire career out of it. It's something he will address later for it does have some truth to it, but as Hannibal looks at Will and that feeling continues - a sinking dread and uncertainty - it takes him only a few moments to pinpoint what the problem is.

...semblance of a unified person was undoubtedly jarring. Was undoubtedly jarring. _Was_.

Understanding settles into Hannibal's bones like an infusion of lead, weighing him down as if in his core. He's quiet for too long, just a few seconds longer than he should be, but it's enough. _Was_ jarring for Hannibal, but _is_ jarring for Will. Despite English not even being his third language, he understands word choice. He understands the way minds work, and as he looks at Will - at his expression, reined in, a little tight - a flood of frustration wells up within his chest.

He's tempted to stand up, to leave the room, to call Will out on suddenly not being genuine. Perhaps there is an element of truth to this facade presented to him, but it's not real. Not entirely. Will is holding himself together because he believes that is what Hannibal wants, and the knowledge burns. Still, perhaps as an homage to Will and his control, Hannibal's expression remains blank, almost thoughtful. He thinks back on Will's words - no tenderness, that Will wants to hurt him, that Hannibal had changed the rules - and he silently dashes old hopes. Perhaps one day, far in the future, but not now. Not with Will as he is.

"The broken and the desperate require a careful hand and each requires a different reality on which to build a foundation," Hannibal says quietly. He doesn't look away from Will. "There are those who wear brokenness as a shroud to hide from the world, and admittedly I am less tolerant of those who attempt to use circumstances for pity, but that is not you, Will. Your brokenness, your desperation... I believe you have found a way to fashion your broken edges into a knife. You've honed your edges and shattered yourself further for Jack. I would assume part of you wonders if your pieces even fit together anymore." Hannibal reaches out then, one of his hands coming to rest on Will's arm. It's light, but it's blatant even so. He hadn't asked before doing it, and it's reminiscent of their old touches. A hand on Will's face, a hand on his shoulder, reassuring.

"May I ask something, Will?" Hannibal says, though he isn't looking for permission. "Why do you want to hurt me? Do you still wish me dead, or is it something else?"

* * *

The imagery Hannibal creates with his words is rather nice. His brokenness and desperation, his shattered edges fashioned into a knife. What else would he do with it? Of course he must be a weapon, something with the potential to be deadly and destructive. Chiyoh had surmised that he was afraid of turning into Hannibal if he didn't kill him, but Will doesn't think he's on that path.

' _I would assume part of you wonders if your pieces even fit together anymore.'_ It's an apt assumption, really. Everything he's been through and seen, everything he's participated in, how could the sum of his parts create a whole picture? Has he ever been whole? His skin has been mended, scars forming, but that's just the outside... (But he'll try, he'll try. He has to.)

Will notices the touch to his arm. He hadn't invited it, but Hannibal had reached out anyway. It's more akin to _before._ Before, when Hannibal did whatever he wanted, when Hannibal got up and into his personal space, Will _knew_ he should have bristled and backed up. He'd fucking _allowed_ it, though. Even now, it's strange to think about, to realize that he'd let Hannibal get so close to him. Despite Will claiming that he didn't do eye contact, how many times had their eyes fucking met? Will hadn't seen anything but a neat facade for so very long. He'd thought Hannibal Lecter was just a fucking pretentious dandy who enjoyed opera, wining and dining and fancy dress. A man who had a penchant for helping because he was intelligent enough and had the means to do so. Will hadn't thought, hadn't even considered the possibility that a colleague of Alana Bloom's could be anything _but_ upstanding.

Hannibal's question has Will almost smiling in amusement. He leans slightly into the touch on his arm. It does feel comforting... "Wish you _dead_? Now that I finally find you interesting?" It's a callback to what he said when he'd resumed his so called therapy and then subsequent friendship. Hannibal had asked him nearly the identical question then and he'll answer it again. "No, I don't want you dead, Hannibal. We're conjoined. I wasn't lying then. Red thread, remember?" Will cocks his head to the side, a small challenge.

This is better. He's doing better.

* * *

It's like attempting to recall a song from youth, the words gone but the notes a fuzzy echo in the back of one's mind. It's been awhile since Hannibal was this man, since he'd sat across from Will - in his office or at his table or in his study - and merely spoken with him. The muscle memory is there but it feels almost muted now. It's not what Hannibal wants, not in its entirety, but if this is what he's given, he will take it. As frustrated as he is that Will is once again attempting to shield himself, to pull his edges together and pretend to be a man not entirely genuine, he's beginning to realize that perhaps the problem is not Will.

Despite how little Hannibal wishes to think about it, when he considers Will's situation, it makes sense as to why he keeps lashing out, why he keeps redirecting his aggression upon himself. Trauma asserts itself in many ways and Will Graham is a man borne of trauma. Hannibal is frustrated, bitterness curling within, but as he carefully monitors the way Will reacts to this change, he reluctantly has to admit it's favorable. He touches Will without permission and Will seems surprised, and then simply leans into the touch. It's slight, subtle, but Hannibal notices. Perhaps Will is still maintaining his own control, still presenting a different face in the hopes he can be _better_ , but as Hannibal silently assesses each second - as he allows himself to consider the depth of Will's motivations - he realizes that he'd been right. Will Graham is not the problem. He is.

He's been attempting to bend over backwards for Will, when the reality likely is that Will requires the support. He doesn't need a foundation built. He needs _Hannibal_ to be the foundation. To be a wall he can lash out at, scream at, return all those nasty, complicated feelings at. With the filter in mind, it makes sense. He hopes it does, anyway. Hopes that perhaps this is what is needed instead. Will had reacted well downstairs to thoughts of Hannibal killing, to him powerful. He's reacting well now. He'd struggled in Hannibal's arms to feel contained. He'd ached for Hannibal's hands around his throat. Violence and comfort, a gaping maw of need.

He'll try. Hannibal has had time to learn that life without Will is not what he wants. He's allowed himself to linger over the romantic and the melancholy. Yet as Hannibal listens to Will speak, as he listens to the airy tone Will is using, as he sees the control there, he inwardly sighs. Very well then. He is nothing if not adaptable.

His lips pull into something not quite a smile at the quote from so long ago. Hannibal's hand braces Will's arm, not quite squeezing but not merely a passive touch either. "Mm. Yes, your red thread. _Ours_ , it might be argued." He can practically feel it wound around him even now. "So if you don't wish me dead, I can only assume there is another motive behind your desire to hurt me. Love me and hurt me, didn't you say? Arguably we hurt the ones we love, and yet I cannot help but feel there is a different motivation to that claim."

* * *

Will had been so caught up in _finding_ Hannibal. It had practically been some quest for him. The _after_ part hadn't mattered. Finding Hannibal, seeing him again... That had dominated everything, eclipsed any shreds of reason he may have possessed. They say love is blind, but Will _knows_ his lover's faults. He's had the pleasure of experiencing them on multiple levels (trust broken, heart betrayed, children slain, belly cut open...) He simply chooses to look past them. Love is selfish. Maybe not all love, but _Will's_ love is definitely selfish. A few moments ago he'd been called a parasite, after all.

He wants Hannibal. He wants Hannibal to want him. So if Hannibal prefers a certain facet of him, Will is going to try and turn to present that angle for Hannibal. (He likes Hannibal eyes on him, he wants to be watched...) It contradicts his earlier claim of wanting to hurt Hannibal. It proves just how pathetic he is, that he would bend, that he would curve to try and be more appealing, but yet there's the destructive urge to hurt, to lash out. Irrational. A tangled mess, but love is also complicated. Blind and complicated. A great combination.

Maybe he'll break down, whenever he retreats to his room, whenever he's next alone. But he's going to try his damndest to hold it together while around Hannibal. Pick up the pieces, hold them tight, like the jacket to his chest, feel the leather--

... '-- _your red thread. Ours, it might be argued.'_ Will comes back to himself, blinking. He looks at Hannibal. He thinks, he remembers, blood raining down on him... "I've fantasized a few times about killing you. In them I made you a bloody mess." Will's lips pull at the corners, almost fond in a detached way. "But it should be rather obvious... I'm still hurt and angry... Hurt people hurt people. Simple saying, but apt."

* * *

The words don't come as a surprise. In all honesty, Hannibal had been expecting them, but there's an old feeling that curls through him like smoke, infusing all he is down to his core. He remembers Will's words, the soft whisper of violence, the admission that Will had wanted to use his hands to kill him. Delicate, intimate even then. Hannibal doubts that has changed. If Will fantasizes about him dying bloody, it's difficult to be impersonal. A bullet only bleeds copiously if it strikes the right place. A knife is needed for true violence, and knives are personal and intimate. They require passion or control depending on the wielder. As Hannibal lays there, watching Will pull himself slowly back together, he thinks that Will is passion and Hannibal control. At least Hannibal had been control, before Will.

"I would be insulted were you to fantasize about killing me impersonally," Hannibal says quietly. Still he remains on his side, allowing Will to sit on the bed. There's a power imbalance in their positioning and yet Hannibal doesn't care. Has he ever lorded his height over Will? Ever made a point to tower over him? No. He is not so crass as to force dominance over another by such archaic means. "There would be no greater insult than an impersonal death by your hands. If one day you change your mind and decide you wish me dead, I would at least request something other than a simple bullet." It's said like they're simply discussing the weather. It's quiet but it lacks passion. Hannibal suspects that had Will wished to kill him, he would have done it while he'd still been too weak to fight back. He's safe, in a manner of speaking. The only question now is how to handle everything else.

Hannibal doesn't like it. He doesn't enjoy bottling certain aspects of himself away, but as he watches Will and witnesses his facade, he swears he can see small fissures in it already. Now that the illusion has been broken for him, he can see the fractures. He can see the strain this puts on Will. Hannibal may not like it, but he knows that of the two of them, _he_ is the one strong enough to not fall apart by being contained. Hearing Will's words - hurt people hurt people - only solidifies it.

Will is hurt. Will is angry. Will needs something solid to rail against. He doesn't need kindness and softness. He doesn't need something to cushion each punch. He needs something he can feel down to his bones. Hannibal looks at him - _really_ looks at him - and then finally allows himself a small sigh. "I would imagine that you would find more relief _not_ bottling yourself away. May I ask your plan?" Hannibal doesn't sound accusatory, merely curious. "Remain composed in my presence, project what you believe I wish to see, and hope you'll not fracture at the edges? Fall apart when I'm not around?"

* * *

Hannibal's response is hardly a surprise. It is, however, more than a little amusing to think of Hannibal _insulted_ by an impersonal death. It'd be an affront to Hannibal to die by some overly ordinary thing like a bullet wound. Hannibal's tone is casual, conversational and somehow so _Hannibal_. Will wants to laugh, it wants to burst out of his lungs like some hideous cackle, but he swallows it down. He keeps himself compressed. He remembers Hannibal's hands around his throat in the dining room, in the catacombs... He remembers Hannibal's arms around him, holding him tightly just moments ago (but it feels like hours now, almost). He'll have to do it for himself. He'd been doing it for years without help (more or less). He'd kept a job. Kept his dogs. Kept his head above water...

He could have shot Hannibal in Hannibal's own kitchen. He could have sliced Hannibal when the man was restrained in a straight jacket, hanging and waiting to be fed to Mason's prized pigs. He's had opportunities here, even. He could have taken any one of the rather sharp knives from the kitchen, concealed it, and slipped into Hannibal's room and stabbed him in the chest like a vulture preying on the wounded. Hannibal's death would accomplish nothing. Hannibal dying would not bring back Abigail. It would not undo the past. Hannibal would hurt for a period of time, and then cease to exist. Their story would be over, the book closed. Will would be alone. Chiyoh would likely skin him, have his pelt and then spit on it. No, he doesn't want Hannibal dead. Will can't even fathom what life would look like for him if Hannibal were to die. It's a fucking scary thought, the kind that would keep him up all night...

And then Hannibal looks at him. Eyes penetrating, mind searching -- _seeing_. It's something significant. Will feels it. He knows it. It's clarity. He waivers. His eyes flick down, the contact broken, but Hannibal has decided to not play anymore. He calls him out. Oh, it's not done cruelly. It's done with interest, with curiosity. And it's so fucking _familiar_ that it causes Will's chest to ache. (Once upon a time he'd trusted and had conversations with a Doctor, believing--)

He swallows it down.

His eyes catch Hannibal's again -- he dares. "Sure, why not?" Will shoots back. "It's self-preservation. You didn't seem to care for my shambling self. I'm not going to assume that your _favor_ doesn't come with conditions. Expectations." Will shrugs, a hand coming to scratch at his beard. He purposefully does not use the word love.

* * *

It's like grinding against the grain. The wood grain of his new reality is smooth if stroked forward, but upon a hand running _back_ , there rests only splinters and sharp edges and resistance. As much as Hannibal doesn't wish to do it, he's already made a choice. He's already set sandpaper against the grain and he's already pushing _back_. Bit by bit, with every second of control, every word that passes his lips, that jagged edge begins to smooth. Each pass catches less, each touch stings less. Perhaps this is not ideal to the man he is, but Will doesn't need who he is. Will needs who he was. Yet even as Hannibal watches the emotions play over Will's mind, sharp behind his mind, almost wary, ashamed, he knows that of the two of them, the difference between who they were and who they are is less in him. He hasn't shattered apart the way Will has. He hasn't fractured himself and ripped free like a wild animal caught in a snare. He's suffered struggles and hardship but he can hold himself together and suffer no consequences. Will can't.

So Hannibal breathes. He centers himself. He asks his mild questions, his tone almost identical to the voice he'd have used in the past, and he sees the first flicker of recognition behind Will's eyes. Will looks away, as if uncertain, but Hannibal still catches the expression, still sees the hope and the familiarity and the ache. He's chosen properly and Hannibal knows it. He nods slowly, attentive, and when Will dares to catch his eyes again and answer, Hannibal doesn't look away. He doesn't shut Will out as he had. In the darkness of the room, Hannibal may as well be sitting in his office, hands clasped casually over his lap, suit and hair pristine and smile polite but interested.

The difference is that the conversation is much, _much_ more personal. Hannibal listens and though Will's words rankle, he doesn't show it. Instead he hums a soft sound in the back of his throat and pointedly ignores what _favor_ actually means.

"That, I believe, is one of the greatest pitfalls of your empathy, Will," Hannibal says. He drops his hand from Will's arm only to allow it to rest instead on the bed beside him, the side of his hand pressed against Will's leg. Skin on skin, but still casual. Connection but not crushing intimacy. "You're sensitive. Both in emotions and in perception. The issue is when you attempt to define the thoughts and beliefs of another based on the filter in your mind. Yes, I am frustrated. However it isn't for the reasons you believe. I am prideful, Will. Just as you are. Had Jack impressed upon you the importance of figuring out a killer's mind but that killer's mind had remained closed to you, you would have distantly felt frustrated at Jack, perhaps at the person in question. But ultimately you would have felt frustrated with yourself for failing." Hannibal sends Will a calm but pointed look.

"It gives me no pleasure to admit I believe I've been mistaken. Attempting to direct you, to force a new foundation beneath your feet... it has only been reckless. You don't _want_ a new one. You wish your old one. Perhaps I should have taken the time to assist you with repairs instead of attempting to destroy it to rebuild another foundation."

Hannibal wets his lips, considers for a moment, and then continues. "There is no need for self-preservation. I find you fascinating regardless of your actions. Despite the apparent mistakes I've made, I'm here. I've not cast you aside. Even during the bleakest moments, I've still wished you near." Hannibal turns his hand, just enough to move it to press over Will's knee. Intimate. "There are no conditions on my _favor_ , Will. Whether you sit and dine at the table or lash out and scream your frustration at me, you are still welcome here, with me."

* * *

Will remembers Hannibal dipping his swollen and aching hand into the basin of water to wash off blood from his knuckles. He remembers the submersion, the slight sting, the swirl of crimson polluting the water. How tenderly Hannibal had treated him then. Almost as if the care was a reward for a job well done with Randall Tier. Will also remembers the aroma of the not exactly "chicken soup" Hannibal had brought him in the hospital, the scent wafting as Hannibal set up their makeshift dinner setting at on the small table. Silkie chicken, a black boned bird... Another bird fed to him, presumably his first. Hooked up to an IV, Will had allowed Hannibal to pull out his chair for him. They had ate and talked about his recovery. About Miriam Lass' recovery... Not that she had recovered. Not that _he'd_ even recovered fully either.

Unlike last time, Hannibal knows this is a performance of sorts. Will doesn't know if he cares. Cruel lovers being cruel lovers, smiling and touching and hiding blades. _'Loving you is a bloodsport.'_ Perhaps the truest words Will has ever spoken.

Hannibal's words, his sentiment, his claim... They are but words. Does Will have proof? Favor without conditions? Love without conditions? The only proof is that he's alive now, that Hannibal saved him from his little face-swap and death... after Mason saved him from Hannibal's misguided attempt at forgiveness. Will hadn't been expecting an admission of a mistake from Hannibal, for Hannibal to be fucking _trying_. Hannibal thinks he wants the old foundation (familiar, expected) but Will's not so sure. What is he signing up for exactly?

Instead of answering, he shifts, he shows Hannibal a new angle, a new facet to observe.

"Bleakest moments... How did it feel walking out of your house, leaving us all there bloody and broken by your hand?" Will asks, eyes glinting and voice honeyed. "The rain coming down, did your tears mix with the droplets? Did you hear the sirens as you walked right past Alana. Did you even pay her a glance or were you stalwartly looking ahead?" Will places his hand on top of the one on his knee. He rubs his palm against the back of Hannibal's hand before pushing his fingers in-between Hannibal's own."When I remember the moment, I most keenly resonate with you _walking away_ and leaving me."

* * *

For a moment, Hannibal believes he's finally pinpointed something he can use. The fact he's had this assumption a few times before does cross his mind, but hope, as always, springs eternal. Which is why, when Will turns to face him a little better and the angle of his expression changes, Hannibal is not entirely surprised by the way his own stomach wrenches. There's hardly anything in Will's eyes save a slight light of interest. It's a look of intent. Hannibal has thought long and hard about Will's expressions since leaving him in Baltimore, every single one, from shared dinners to burning patient files. He believes he knows what Will looks like before he acts out, and seeing him, seeing the way Will reacts as he draws breath, Hannibal knows he isn't going to like the answer.

He doesn't. It's a blow that comes in low, as if attempting to sweep his feet out from underneath him. There's a jagged curve to the words but Will's voice is honeyed and smooth. A perfect trap, sweet tone, gentle touch, and serrated words. Hannibal's immediate response is hurt followed quickly by anger. Is this wrong? Has he assumed improperly again? Or is there simply no winning with this man? Does Will not want resolution? Does he not want foundation or affinity? Does he not want Hannibal's _favor_ in the long run? Or does he want it simply so that he can pick it up with delicate hands and then break it over his knee before crushing the pieces to dust under his shoe?

Hannibal's expression only just reacts. There's a flicker of something behind his eyes and the distant curiosity on his face tightens into something only just stretched too thin. He looks down at the way Will laces their fingers together and the answers to each question feel like bile in his throat. An act of cruelty, or a test? Is there any difference anymore? Hannibal's pulse quickens, each beat of his heart feeling heavier in his chest. Will has asked much of him. So many questions, so much lingering rage and hurt, and as Hannibal lays there and feels his insides burn, he decides that it's too much to answer. It is _also_ a deflection. Even hurt, he's not too injured to notice that.

"Yet I didn't cast you aside," is all he says, his voice so careful that it feels like blown glass upon his lips.

After a beat of a moment, Hannibal takes his hand back, leaving Will's hand to rest on his own leg. He gives serious consideration to his actions, but in the end, test or cruelty or deflection... does it matter? Scraps. Small, infinitesimal scraps. Hannibal reaches a hand out. "Come here. Let me hold you. As I told you... no conditions. I have always only wished you to be free of your own rules. You have always been enough."

* * *

He should have been more concerned about Abigail bleeding out, about Alana and Jack - about _himself_ \- but Will thinks, even then, he knew he would make it out. His death would end it all. His death would be a respite, an escape from the suffering. Being left, deemed unworthy, deemed forgettable... That was a profound judgment and punishment given to Will. An ache to go along with the cut to his abdomen, something that burrowed deep within. Some sickness, some addiction he can't kick. He couldn't kick it. Does he want to anyway? Miles traveled, days bleeding into weeks, stepping in Hannibal's old stomping grounds... there should be some measure of peace to be found now. He's _found_ Hannibal. Hannibal hasn't left him. Hannibal loves him.

But it's no fix. It's no remedy. There probably is no remedy for what ails him. Will feels exhausted suddenly. He's been floundering, trying, pulling, pushing, pressing. Reaching and withdrawing. Touching and fleeing. Threatening and whispering sentiments of love. Alana's words - _'do you feel unstable?'_ \- filter into his head and Will almost wants to laugh at it. He doesn't want to think back on this evening, how he's been all over the place. To piece together the events that got him from point A to B then somehow to Q -- here. Lashing out, hissing out questions directed to hurt at what ought could be considered a détente for them. Will's not that far gone to realize what he's done, how he's done more than physically thrash this evening.

 _'Yet I didn't cast you aside'_ is the reply Will receives. Hannibal had given him a hint, Hannibal had allowed himself to be found. He wanted to be found. Hannibal pulls his hand away. It's potentially a rebuke, but it's what he deserves so Will doesn't even protest it. He lets the action - the rejection - hurt. He feels the pain and it's familiar--

But not quite. Because Hannibal reaches out and... he's not quite asking for permission as much as extending the invitation to be held. Hannibal is smart enough to not take the bait. He doesn't answer the questions. Will swallows and licks his bottom lip in consideration. He's always been enough? More words, another claim... but what's the point in arguing? Isn't he here now? With Hannibal... and Hannibal had agreed to take scraps, to accept any ragged form Will may take. Will's just too damn tired to fight so he lies back down. He worms his way closer to Hannibal, lifting the sheet over himself and he settles against Hannibal's chest, one of Hannibal's arms coming to rest under his neck. He's on his back as he's unable to turn and face him because of his shoulder. It's not ideal, but it works. Will's own hands rest on his stomach, folded over his scar. He all but deflates near Hannibal, body sagging, tension dissipating as Hannibal's own warmth and closeness lulls him.

Will sighs, closing his eyes. "I'd say 'sorry' if I thought it would help," Will says.

* * *

How many times has Hannibal seen this man and thought ' _abused dog'_ in the back of his mind? How many times has he offered Will something and seen the suspicion in his eyes, the wariness so like a wild, abused animal. Yet as Hannibal holds out an arm and tells Will what he wishes, he cannot quite unsee the fact that _he_ also fits the image. Beaten down multiple times, stung by Will's words, yet still reaching out, still needing. He'll take the scraps. He'll search them out on the floor if he has to, even if everything he is wishes to fight against the idea. Hannibal is a proud man but now that he has had life with Will Graham, even a half-life with him is preferable to isolation. The hint of being seen, of not needing to hide, of knowing that even with his masks up, Will can still see part of him... that novelty hasn't worn off, nor will it ever. Even Florence with all its majesty had paled. A man walking among sheep, their only purpose to be lambs for slaughter. No second shepherd. No human contact. Merely vast, beautiful, empty meadows and the low bleating of the animals swarming him.

So when Will looks at him and seems to consider the offer, Hannibal doesn't move. He doesn't push or manipulate in this moment. Instead he simply holds a hand out to Will and regardless of the strain it takes to keep his arm up, he simply waits. There are two options. Either Will accepts or he doesn't. Hannibal waits, but he's not left waiting long. Instead he watches as Will's throat bobs in a small swallow, watches as he seems to fight with himself for only a moment, and then Will is inching in closer. He's slow, as if uncertain, but Hannibal doesn't rush him. He merely shifts enough to offer Will his arm and when Will finally eases back against it, his neck resting against Hannibal's arm, his warmth along Hannibal's side, and the sheets drawn up, Hannibal hardly dares to believe it.

He's still stung, as he suspects Will is. They've both spat bitterness in anger. They'll both need to recover the pieces and rebuild themselves. Yet as Hannibal feels the warmth of Will's body willingly settling in close, he finds himself stuck on one simple truth: Will has never allowed him this before. Before doesn't count. Before had been almost too much, almost forced. Whatever arousal had existed is gone; it had merely been a means to an end, clouding the rest. This is something Hannibal hardly dares to think he'll be able to have. Will's body relaxes against his own, and as uncomfortable as Hannibal is on his side, he simply compromises by lightly draping his free arm over Will's torso - over the sheet.

Perhaps Hannibal doesn't believe the words Will says, not in their entirety, but he appreciates that Will says them. And at the heart of it, perhaps there is some truth to it.

"I believe we both would. I'd ask that you stay the night, Will. Whatever more we have to say can be said once rested." Hannibal looks at him, at the way Will's eyes remain closed. He's close like this, and despite everything they've done, despite every moment of that evening, it hasn't escaped his notice that he's still not kissed Will. He's tempted, but given how defeated they both are, given their stress and hurt, Hannibal sighs and sets the urge aside. One day, perhaps, someday.

* * *

Will can't remember the last time he legitimately shared a bed with someone to _sleep_. In some ways, sleeping with another is far more intimate than fucking them. Sleeping puts one in a position of vulnerability, a lowering of defenses. You could drool, snore or elbow the bed-partner in the face. They could smash a whiskey bottle into your head or rob you blind. Even after everything, Will knows he's going to spend the night in Hannibal's bed. Maybe he's defeated, maybe he's trying to make up for some of his bad behavior, but he can't think of _not_ being here.

"I don't know if I believe you," Will murmurs, words said out of necessity. "Have more experience of you messing with things... Anyway, goodnight." His tone is final. Will doesn't want to think about talking tomorrow or the next day... Is time supposed to heal, to mend, to fix. Is his only option to wait and hope that the wounds don't fester?

He's pretty sure Hannibal is waiting for him to nod off first. The silence is heavy, but not exactly oppressive or awkward. Hannibal is warm and sturdy next to him. Alive. _Here_. Together. It should mean, should feel-- The arm draped over him (and over the sheet) isn't tight. It's just right... What a bizarre thought to have.

Sleep comes surprisingly easy to Will. He hadn't been expecting it to. He dreams about dead birds and Chiyoh chopping their heads off for Hannibal to cook (for him). He dreams about feathers sailing down alongside papers when they were last in Hannibal's office burning records and burning Hannibal's old life.

He wakes to an empty bed. His hand pats the space that Hannibal used to occupy. There's no lingering warmth left. Will rolls over onto Hannibal's side, his face seeking out Hannibal's pillow and rubbing against it. The scent of Hannibal is all around him and Will wishes he didn't feel so alone.


	8. Seismic shift

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Words don't seem to work on you. You suspect them. Promises are shallow. You respond better to actions, but even they fall short. What is left? Emotion? You question the validity of that as well, as do I."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this journey is now complete. All things must come to an end. Thank you for the comments and interest! It's been a ride.
> 
> The story will go on, though. We're already working on the sequel. Please subscribe to the series to be notified of when it gets posted or follow Merry on tumblr.
> 
> Will is written by merrythoughts ([tumblr](http://merrythought.tumblr.com))  
> Hannibal/Chiyoh written by Dapperscript/reallymisscoffee ([tumblr](http://reallymisscoffee.tumblr.com/))

The dawn had broken too early, a rosy golden light beginning to creep over the edges of the room. Hannibal had woken gradually. One moment the room had been dark, the next the gold had begun to drift over Will's sleeping expression, and before long the room had been awash in the beautiful dawn light. Hannibal had considered it for a long while, quietly marveling at both it and at Will still by his side, still fast asleep. Regardless of how much he'd ached to remain, though, regardless of what he wished to talk to Will about, distance is important, especially now. He'd merely looked at Will in the dim morning light, brushed his hair back, and then had carefully gotten out of bed.

Which finds him here. Hannibal has always found cooking to be both artistic and cathartic. There's something mindful about the quick knife work and delicate grace needed to properly make something that pleases every sense. Eggs sizzle as meat cooks, the delicate scent of thyme filling the kitchen as Hannibal minds the stove. He's been up for what feels like an hour and yet despite the methodical way he moves, despite throwing himself into the mindfulness of making something palatable and pleasing, he cannot quite detach his mind from Will Graham. Hannibal's lips are not thin, but nor are they relaxed. He stands at the stove, monitoring the food every second and yet his mind is adrift. Two steps forward, and he's no longer sure how many back. One? Five? Twenty? It's becoming more and more difficult to know.

In the dark of the night he had merely curled around Will to herald in the comfort of sleep, but sleep hadn't found him for hours. Exhausted, drained, feeling emotionally carved open with a skill so impressive he'd almost woken Will again to congratulate him, Hannibal had merely lain awake, watching the play of moonlight over Will's features, wondering once more whether or not this was truly worth it. 

Words have been said. Words he doubts either of them will be able to take back. Will doubts his sincerity. If Hannibal is certain of nothing else, he is certain of that. Hannibal's words are just words to Will, his declarations nothing more than sound on the wind. It doesn't seem to matter what Hannibal has done for him, what he's given up, what he's put himself through, and the knowledge that it's not been _good enough_ still burns. Yet as Hannibal minds the eggs and briefly loses himself to the moisture sizzling away, he wonders if he can blame Will for it. Will doesn't know who he is. Hannibal is running out of guesses. This isn't sustainable, and despite how badly Hannibal wishes to merely gather Will to his chest and steal him away - body _and_ mind - something needs to change first. As Hannibal prods at the eggs, he's beginning to realize that this is not going to end cleanly. There is no delicate fix for this.

"Hannibal," comes a voice behind him, and Hannibal doesn't jump. He merely glances back over his shoulder. Chiyoh stands behind him, her hair pulled back sharply in a bun but her clothing still soft. There are a few hairs out of place that have fallen out of her bun and Hannibal decides he's likely woken her up. The small frown on her lips when Hannibal turns back to look at her means that regardless of her state of wakefulness, nothing gets past her. He sighs. He doesn't answer.

"You have tasted his silver tongue," she guesses, and Hannibal turns back to look at the eggs.

He thinks back to the conversation they'd had. Silver tongues and recklessness and Hannibal's own posed question: ' _would you rather I remain alone?'_ This time it's his turn to frown. His hand stills. 

He remembers Chiyoh's words well. _'He is a wild dog with no master. He's starving and cold and he prefers it, for it keeps him unchained.'_ As he stands there, pajama pants loose on his hips, his bandages stinging his back with every movement of the forest green sweater over top them, he aches to realize that his optimism has likely been misplaced.

"I have tasted enough to know better."

Chiyoh nods, though Hannibal can't see her. She regards him quietly. His shoulders are still straight, still square, but they've relaxed some. It's not a pleasant sight. Hannibal appears somewhat curled in upon himself, far more reserved than he should be, and it's that that makes her step in closer. She glances at the eggs and notes the slightly-browning edges, and then glances at him and notices the slightly-unfocused look in his eyes. Wordlessly she reaches over and turns off the burner, and that seems to snap him back to himself. Chiyoh catches the smallest flicker of irritation (likely at himself) and she nods to him when he thanks her on his next sigh. 

She merely stands there. "One can know better and yet resist acting upon the knowledge."

"A pleasant lie is often more palatable than an unpleasant truth."

"Do you intend to look upon him as your reflection, despite knowing he is but a fox in the end?"

Hannibal glances back at her only once, then steps away. He gingerly reaches to bring plates from the cupboard and sets about serving a breakfast he isn't entirely certain that Will is going to attend. Yet despite the uncertainty, the sound of coffee percolating still bubbles from the counter. 

"Will I settle for scraps?" He asks, wryly amused. "Is it not better to eat scraps than not eat at all?"

"He is not sustenance. He is a vice. I have known you long enough to know that your survival is not contingent upon his," Chiyoh says, and while her tone is respectful, it's also slightly chilled. 

"Perhaps." Hannibal nods. "Yet quality of life is also a consideration. To become accustomed to eating the finest of meals only to be forced to partake of gruel once more is not fatal, but the quality of one's life diminishes greatly."

Chiyoh only shakes her head, and her sigh is slightly frustrated this time. Yet before she can open her mouth to say anything else, Hannibal sends her a quick look and then slowly rolls his shoulders. 

"Considering he will take some time to join us for breakfast, may I ask you to change the bandages?" Considering Will has been doing it for him for the past few days at least, Chiyoh's surprise is not unexpected, but she hides it well after a moment. Though Hannibal can see the question in her eyes - for she knows him enough to know that this is more than simply a request to have his bandages changed - she doesn't ask. Instead she nods, helps him take the plates to the kitchen table, and then leaves the coffee to percolate. They leave together, walking to her room instead of Hannibal's own. 

* * *

Will doesn't want to get up and leave. Not yet. He doesn't want to disturb this moment of hushed peace at being alone in Hannibal's room, in Hannibal's bed, under his sheets. He's the odd thing in here, the addition to the somewhat familiar room. He's been here often enough, but only with the focus of changing bandages. But Hannibal has wanted him to sleep here for _weeks_ and he finally has now... Granted, it had been after all of _that_. That being talks of killing Bedelia, masturbation, come licking, a blow job, choking, getting Hannibal off... Were the actions crazier or everything that had been said and confessed? 

Perhaps the problem is that nothing feels that absurd. Definitely different, definitely new, but in a certain way some part of him has been longing for this, craving it like some drug.

Will lies stomach down, his face buried in Hannibal's pillow, the sheets tangled around his limbs. He knows it's still early. He doesn't feel rested, having woken up because it's a new bed, a new room and... It doesn't even seem scandalous to have sleepover with Hannibal. Not really. Hannibal is human and needs sleep. 

"Why don't you believe him?"

Abigail's voice rings out clear as a bell. Will immediately stiffens, but a moment later he relaxes. Why not? Why not have a conversation with her? Should go better than with Hannibal at any rate. He turns toward the window, knowing that's where she's at - she's his own hallucination, after all. He blinks and takes in her achingly familiar form. She's standing, bathed in morning light, looking alive as ever and free of blood and pain. A red scarf is tied around her neck and Will can see the frayed edges, stray threads breaking free...

"I don't know," Will answers, sitting up and scratching at his stubble. He doesn't know if it feels good to be upright but talking with Abigail is a welcome distraction. "Doubt is an old friend? And I don't know if he believes I really do love him. Need. Obsession. That's what he said, but I think we're in the same boat."

Abigail smiles kindly at him, her features soft in the warm light. Will thinks she almost looks like an angel, but he knows of that dark heart inside her chest. "People can show love in strange ways." 

Her hands adjust the scarf and bright blue eyes dart to the window, looking away from him. Will knows she's also referring to her father. He spares a moment to think about Garrett Jacob Hobbs. The Minnesota Shrike had put him in touch with Hannibal, had started the whole ball rolling really. He'd saved her with Hannibal, bonded with her, hoped... only to lose her. Can Hannibal genuinely love and care for someone and _keep_ them?

"He says he accepts everything - accepts _me_ \- but I don't know if Hannibal's just desperate," Will explains. "Maybe I'll turn out to have an expiration date."

"Like I did?" Abigail's hands tuck into her jean pockets. Her tone is casual. She's always been able to deliver such lines with such ease.

Will smiles sadly at her as he finally frees himself from the sheets and climbs out of bed. He comes to stand next to her. He doesn't dare reach out to touch. 

"I didn't think this through," Will admits. Not a big surprise, really. For a man stuck in his head, he hadn't thought a lot through.

"You wanted to find him and he wanted to be found."

"Yeah, maybe that's the problem because now what?"

"I don't know," Abigail says, turning back to Will. "You either get over things or you don't."

They stare out the window at the ocean. He wonders how Abigail liked it here compared to the city, if she would have enjoyed fishing, if she would have taken to it like hunting...

Will eventually retreats to his room. He showers. He dresses in clothes that are not his own. He puts on the shoes that he came here in. He walks down the stairs. He walks past a waiting breakfast. He walks to the front door and he walks out. Will has no plans, but walking away and asserting some independence feels good. His legs take him past a new car Chiyoh has likely stolen or rented.

Is this really his life? A life on the run? Hiding? Will can't remember ever being consulted...

* * *

Chiyoh changes the bandages, and as she works, she listens. Hannibal speaks, his voice quiet and hushed, and her hands still. She focuses herself with every second that passes on the task at hand. Her hands smooth over the bandages, dampening them before carefully easing them away. Hannibal, as always, doesn't flinch, but there are times where she can't help but wonder how he stays so still. His flesh is burned, practically mutilated, cauterized into a brand that will scar and bubble long before it's healed. He stays still but for his breathing and the slow movements of his lips, and yet as he speaks, she wishes she could interrupt, could cut him off, could protest. 

She doesn't. Instead she listens in the hush of the early morning, and she's left to face what has been curling around through his mind for likely quite some time.

"Are you certain this is wise?" She asks after a moment, her hands gentle upon his back as she cleans residual fragments of cloth away from the burn.

"Are you certain it isn't?"

 _Yes_ , she thinks, but doesn't say. Instead her lips thin and she carefully cleans the edges of the burn, settling into a silence that might as well be comfortable for all Hannibal seems to care about her objections. 

"It is a possibility," he continues, his voice low, almost reluctant. "But I wished you to know. You have been nothing but loyal to me without proper compensation, and you are as much a part of this as I am. Were you to truly object..."

"You would do nothing." Chiyoh's hands still again and she sighs. It's a clipped, tight sound. "I am not a reckless creature, Hannibal. And you have long since earned my loyalty. You are as much my responsibility now as you were before. If this is your choice, if this _does_ come to pass, I will assist you in any way I can."

That's all that needs to be said on the matter. Hannibal merely nods and then lapses into silence once more. Behind him, Chiyoh's hands are careful on his skin. She re-bandages the wounds upon his back slowly, carefully, and though he clearly isn't in any particular comfort, he stays silent. Time passes where Chiyoh insists he take medication, and while Hannibal clearly does object, he acquiesces before long. It's then that she realizes just how serious he is. 

They're silent until the sound of footsteps upon the stairs. Hannibal had heard the shower on, had heard the slow sounds of Will rising in the morning, but there's something different in the cadence of his steps now. He's quiet, listening, and as he listens, he and Chiyoh both hear Will's footsteps walk past the kitchen (where the food had been left) and instead further, toward the door. A small thread of tension curls through Hannibal's shoulders but otherwise he seems accepting. He's quiet, and after a small glance at Chiyoh, she nods her head and then leaves him to open her own door. As she opens hers, Will steps outside, and without being told, Chiyoh wanders across the hall to the kitchen, where she reaches a hand out and carefully pushes the curtains to the side, watching as Will walks out over the front steps and across the drive, past the vehicle out front and beyond even that. 

She returns to Hannibal then, who is already seated. As she walks in, she notes the careful way he pulls his sweater back on, and before he asks her, she volunteers: "he's walking away. Not running."

Hannibal's frown is mild. "He would run were he serious. His gait?"

"Measured," Chiyoh considers, "assertive."

"Follow him." Hannibal's expression is mild, but there's a small thread of something behind his eyes that Chiyoh doesn't like when she looks at him. "If he wishes to explore, he may."

"And if he wishes to leave?"

Hannibal's silence says more than words can. "Ensure he doesn't hurt himself," is all he says, and Chiyoh nods a polite yet knowing smile and then turns away from him.

"Mind your back. You aggravated the wounds last night. I will return shortly," she says, and then she's gone.

Chiyoh quietly pulls on a thin leather jacket and a pair of boots and then steps outside onto the porch, as she has done many times before. The sun is bright, the scent of the sea enough to clear her head, but her focus is on the picture Will makes in the distance. She watches him until she deems it safe and then she starts after him, walking swiftly but silently. A shadow, as she is so good at being. Yet perhaps there is something less controlled in her gait now. Will Graham has never been a favorite person of hers, but now... now it's getting worse.

* * *

It feels good to be out walking. To be moving, his heart beating a little faster from the exertion, blood being pumped quicker, even the light breeze blowing against him. It's refreshing to be free from a foreign house, from Chiyoh's distrustful glares and Hannibal's searching perception. He's been cooped up for weeks. Will's honestly surprised he lasted as long as he had. While he can appreciate the safehouse's privacy, it's still strange to not have seen a single soul other than Hannibal and Chiyoh. Snatched away from Mason, kept away from the public. A victim? He doesn't care for that word; it implies helplessness. 

And now he walks away from the house on the bluff. Will glances over his shoulder. He doesn't see Hannibal following, so he assumes Chiyoh has been sent and she's skulking. He knows he's not a free man. Hannibal may not have said as much, but Will knows. He may or may not have an expiration date, but he's aware of the collar. They both belong to each other now. The gravel crunches under his boots and Will wonders how far he'd have to walk to find another human, another house, anything. He can see nothing in the immediate vicinity... But that's fine. He's not really searching for anything. 

Will's found what he'd been looking for, right? 

He walks for a few more minutes before coming to a stop and turning around. He doesn't bother searching for Chiyoh. He knows she will come out once called - only polite after all. 

So Will calls out for her, shouts for Hannibal's faithful guard dog to make itself known. He's not really jealous of her anymore, at least that's something. He steps off the side of the road and Will waits for her. He's not looking forward to whatever words they end up sharing, but maybe he's lost enough that he will try anything at this point.

* * *

Chiyoh trails after Will at a safe distance. She's no stranger to tracking wild animals, to adjusting her position to stand properly downwind. Back at the estate, pheasant had been an easy kill. Deer had been bigger and had served her far better, but they'd been more difficult to take down. Yet despite the difficulties and her isolation, she'd not starved. That should speak for itself. So she trails after Will, the gravel hardly shifting under her feet as she walks. She sidesteps to the side of the road a few times, wandering on the softer grass beside the road rather than risking the noise. Will looks casual, unhurried, his pace steady, his head swiveling so many times that he's clearly alert. Yet he doesn't look _back_. There's no suspicion or paranoia in his walk, which only solidifies in Chiyoh's mind that this is as Hannibal had said. Will isn't serious.

Perhaps some people would recoil at the idea of willingly keeping another creature locked away behind bars, even if they're well-furnished. Chiyoh has no such weakness. She trails, ever faithful, and keeps her distance.

It takes very little time for Will's pace to slow. Minutes into his frivolous excursion, he slows and when he turns around, she quietly conceals herself behind a large pine lining the edge of the woods near Will's path. Needles press into the mud beneath her boots and yet she simply stands, waiting. Therefore she's not entirely surprised to hear Will call out to her. The tone makes her lip curl slightly but she merely ensures he has a good minute to wait before she starts off towards him. She doesn't step out onto the road, choosing instead to step through the forest, so when she does finally come upon him, she steps out much closer than he'd likely been expecting.

"When an animal lumbers into the line of a hunter's scope, it is either very oblivious, or very reckless," Chiyoh says quietly. She stops to stand merely a few feet from Will, her lips curled down in a mild frown. "I once assumed you reckless. Now I am less certain. Recklessness or mere stupidity?"

* * *

What would happen if he ran? Would Chiyoh shoot him in the leg? That'd be almost amusing. Granted, she could probably catch up to him as she's uninjured and Will's not exactly in sprinting shape. But running after him isn't really her style. He doubts she took a weapon, though. Maybe if he had bolted from the house she would have. There will be no running away for him.

He remembers watching her at the Lecter estate. Her calm composure, the enduring resolve as she went about her day and her tasks. Hunting only to eat. Playing the unfeeling guard. Will wonders how she is coping with all the talking, all the noise... _Them_. _Him_. Will is expecting her, but he still startles when she appears. He twitches but then inclines his head in greeting. 

It's tempting to rise to her bullshit. More flowery nonsense, metaphors and the like, but Will isn't even rankled by it. Maybe he's just thankful she's not Hannibal.

"Hannibal helped me save someone - a teenage girl," Will begins softly and he knows once he starts he won't be able to stop or take it back. 

"Abigail. Her Father was a killer. In their kitchen he held a blade to her neck and I shot him. Hannibal stopped the bleeding. I...I orphaned her and she sort of became a symbolic surrogate daughter to the two of us. He told me she reminded him of Mischa." 

Will can't look Chiyoh in the eye. Instead, his eyes look to the trees. He wants to see a majestic set of antlers and ebony feathers and fur but there is nothing for him. He's alone. 

"I was sick then. Encephalitis. Losing time, hallucinations, seizures, trying to catch killers. Not a good time. He knew about it but let it go untreated because he wanted to play with me. He was curious, you see." 

Will smiles a sad, horrible smile. (If only he wasn't _this_ , wasn't _that_...) 

"He made me believe that I had killed her. I had defensive wounds, blacked out the last time I was with her. He cut off her ear and fed it into my stomach. After I threw it up I called him. I sat on my porch, my arms around my knees, shaking and waiting for him to drive out to my place. Waiting for him to somehow make it better. I _trusted_ him. He framed me for a handful of other murders. Made me question my sanity. That's the start of our love story." 

Will turns to face Chiyoh. "Knowing Hannibal like you do... Do you think he’d actually killed her then?"

* * *

Chiyoh is expecting nothing from this conversation. Perhaps an exchange of mutual dislike, Will being reticent, and resisting the demand to return to the house. She has prepared nothing further. Hannibal has given her his request and, as always, she has chosen to honor it. While seeing Will startle does offer her a modicum of satisfaction, given everything she can now see, even that pales in comparison. Her mind is already awash with Hannibal's words, a distracting note blocking out other sound. Spiritual tinnitus. 

So when Will turns to her and begins to speak, Chiyoh almost misses what is said. By the time she realizes that he is not jabbing back with his own classless metaphors, he's already past his first sentence, and Chiyoh has lost her opportunity to stop him. Her frown is deep, though her expression remains blank. 

As Will speaks, she quickly notices that he has chosen to avoid eye contact, consulting the trees instead. Initially she is tempted to dismiss everything, but the knowledge that _Hannibal_ had helped save this girl is worthy of note. Chiyoh remains quiet, but this time she's listening. She listens to Will's recount of the tale, and she straightens obviously when he mentions that this Abigail girl had reminded Hannibal of Mischa. Her attention sharpens then, and while Will doesn't look at her, she doesn't look away from him.

She doesn't know this side of Hannibal's life. She's not been told. She had never so much as thought to ask as she'd known she would have been denied. In a way it seems cruel to find out like this, from a third party, but she cannot deny her interest. And as Will continues, speaking of Hannibal's deception, the fact that Hannibal had not told Will about his illness, framing him, she can also not deny that she is familiar with Hannibal's manipulation. The realization that they perhaps are not entirely different does strike her but she dismisses it instantly. She knows who and what Hannibal is. She has knowledge that Will does not. 

Yet as the final question is posed to her, Chiyoh needs only to think for a handful of seconds before she has her answer. She spends longer considering whether or not she _wishes_ to respond, but she is not an unreasonable woman. If Will is reaching out to her in any way, he must be desperate. 

"No. If she reminded him of Mischa, he would not have wasted her life for curiosity's sake. He kept her. He... protected her." Chiyoh reflects on the story, and while the thought of Hannibal craving this broken man before her leaves a bitter taste on her tongue, she cannot deny what she knows. 

"If she lived, in a sense, he also kept her for you."

* * *

God, what is he doing? If he's opening up to Chiyoh... How desperate must he be? How low has he fallen? Will doesn't want to know. The answers wouldn't be any good, he knows that much. He can sense her dislike of him warring with her interest in one of Hannibal's lives she knows nothing of (he felt the same way toward her). But his mouth keeps moving, words falling out, retelling a story that shouldn't be voiced and yet it's a bit like purging, it has some therapeutic value to it.

It sounds bad. It sounds like a grim fairytale. 

It doesn't change anything. He's not looking for sympathy. He's not looking to paint Hannibal as the villain. Will seriously doubts he could even change Chiyoh's mind anyway. Her loyalty is unwavering. They're family. He'll never have that sort of unyielding bond with Hannibal. He’s never had it with anyone. He'd _wanted_ it with Abigail... He could see it, picture it, hope one day... But he's not actually delusional. He may hallucinate her, but he knows in reality they were not all that close. In some ways that's worse, because of the _potential_... The fucking potential had been there and Hannibal had snatched it away.

Chiyoh doesn't answer him quickly. He's not surprised. She's the type to mull things over, to carefully consider her words. Will is still when she answers and she's perceptive as always. 

_‘If she lived, in a sense, he also kept her for you.'_

Will wants to curl in on himself, to turn away from Chiyoh and keep on walking. Retreat into his stream, but there are no answers for him there. Solitude holds no hidden wisdom. 

"She lived, kept safe and hidden away from everyone, myself included. But at the time I was on the fence, at a loss of what to do once I was released - which was Hannibal's doing, of course. You met Jack in Italy. It'd been his personal quest to catch the Chesapeake Ripper. A part of me wanted to catch Hannibal too. To make him pay, so I played along." 

Will sighs at the memory, at the duplicity that he hadn't known how to handle. "However, he trusted me. He wanted a friend. A potential equal. You can imagine he didn't take the betrayal well. I couldn't even do my part, though. I ended up calling Hannibal to warn him about Jack. Went to his house and that's when it went to Hell. He cut me and then cut her... The same way her father had tried, but this time Hannibal was successful. He left us bleeding out on his floor and escaped to Europe with his own therapist." 

The retelling is almost over. It’s frightening as where does that leave him?

* * *

There are details in this that Chiyoh can't possibly quantify, an endless stream of knowledge from the mind of a man who is not entirely stable. She understands reaching out, understands that the relationship that Hannibal shares with this man is not typical, and she understands that she can't possibly comprehend it all. 

On the side of the street, facing down a man she has no positive associations with, she remains silent, listening, watching, and cataloging everything he says. Is it easy? No. But as Chiyoh stands there and watches the way Will avoids eye contact, the way he shifts and squirms, she feels like this is necessary. He needs someone who will listen, and as distasteful as she finds it, Hannibal would wish this of her. She listens.

The tale is disjointed, a sparse smattering of details, like paint spatters on a canvas trying to tell a story, or residual buckshot littered through the skeleton of a decimated animal attempting to tell the story of what it once was. She sees the sketch of a story, a vague outline, and nothing more. Lips thin, she does what she can to piece together what she'd been told, but her empathy for this man does not extend that far. 

Instead she locks away what she can. Abigail had lived with Hannibal. Will had wanted him to pay. He'd deceived. Hannibal had hoped. When that hope had shattered, he had responded. Chiyoh's frown grows only once, when Will mentions the fact that Hannibal had killed Abigail. The gash across Will's stomach is known to her, but now the story is known as well. Yet instead of empathy for Will, she feels it mostly for Hannibal.

"He trusted you," she says simply, and while her tone is mild, her voice is like the slash of a whip. "And you betrayed him. You knew what he was, and you still played his game. That you called him saved your life, I would assume." Chiyoh slides her hands into the pockets of her jacket. 

"He killed the girl who reminded him of Mischa," she repeats, as this is the moment that bears repeating. As angry as she is, as bitter as she feels toward Will Graham, this is also the information that makes her realize just how damned Hannibal is. 

"He killed her. He left you. He acted in Florence. Then he cradled you, carried you from the farm when you could not, despite what you had done. You are a wild animal, but I had not believed you so foolish. Why are you out here, Will?" Chiyoh asks, looking out at the road before her attention turns back. 

"Walking away from him."

* * *

There is no sympathy from Chiyoh. Will isn't exactly surprised. He doesn't think he'd been holding out for any. Anyone sane would believe Hannibal to be a villain, but Will knows Chiyoh does not share that point of view. She'd grown up with him. That lens of familial loyalty colors her view. This is no catharsis for him. Will feels as lost as ever. The tale's been told, Chiyoh knows most of it, sans Alana, Margot and Mason, but it's always been Abigail that's haunted him. Her ghostly grip on his mind, on his dreams. He should really tell Hannibal the extent of it...but he doesn't know where he stands with Hannibal. 

It's a mess. All of it. Finding Hannibal hadn't been the answer. It simply had turned a key and opened a door into something new and confusing, a room unexplored and cast in darkness. 

' _He trusted you... And you betrayed him. You knew what he was, and you still played his game.'_

She effortlessly hits the nail right on the fucking head. Will should have known better is the thing, but he'd been so... So fucking what, angry and hurt, blinded and believing that he could outsmart Hannibal? Will doesn't know now. (He wants to believe that it would have been different if he had known _she_ was alive. If only he'd known, he would have, he could have--) 

She goes on to point out that Hannibal had _let_ him live. Hannibal hadn't killed him for his betrayal. Hannibal had saved him from Muskrat Farm despite not knowing Will's intentions toward him. Her question isn't easy to hear. Why is he out here, why is he walking away from Hannibal? 

"Maybe I just wanted a break from being immersed in him," Will answers, thoughtful. "It's been more difficult to simply exist in some mockery of domestic peace than I would have thought... It's-it's something we've never had." 

Will glances back to the house. It's waiting for him. Hannibal is too. That should be enough. 

"For what it's worth, thanks for listening." That said, Will turns and begins his journey back.

* * *

While Chiyoh's loyalty will always be to Hannibal, she is not so cruel as to discount Will's tale merely because she doesn't like him. Her comments are her view, but they are not intended to cut Will deep. For all that her loyalty stations itself behind Hannibal, she is more impartial. In Will's position, perhaps she could understand his current issue, but she knows Hannibal enough to know the type of man he is. If Will still played the game, intending to win and outsmart, and he suffered for his pride, the onus is no longer strictly on Hannibal. She won't sugar-coat Will's emotions. Nor will she discount them. The extent to which she cares about Will Graham is remarkably low, but as he looks off in the direction of the house and the recollection of the conversation that Hannibal had had with her resurfaces, she realizes that - in time - she might have to.

Yet it's his words that linger, that truly solidify in her mind. He finds it difficult to exist in domestic peace. He cannot immerse himself in Hannibal Lecter without consequence, because he views it as a mockery. Something unearned, perhaps, which is far more dangerous than any alternative. Chiyoh watches him as he turns and begins to walk back to the house on the bluff, willingly returning to his mockery of domesticity. Yet as Will turns his back to her, Chiyoh only watches him in silence. She thinks back to Hannibal, to his low words, to his ' _possibility_ ', and she suspects that it is no longer so simple. 

"Tell him," she says, finally, after Will is a good twenty feet away. She hasn't moved save to turn around to look at him. "If you haven't, tell him you cannot exist like this. You speak, but never with each other. Speak in riddles and shadows with me, but not with him. Not now."

* * *

Maybe there are no answers. Maybe his imagined Abigail had been right: all that there's left to do is to get over things. Will still catches Chiyoh's words, although he has to stop to hear them. ' _You speak, but never with each other...'_ She's probably right too, although the knowledge leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. For Chiyoh to be attempting to give advice, to help... It's odd. Something feels out of place, like Will is missing a piece of the puzzle. She doesn't like him. She doesn't want him to be with Hannibal. Had Hannibal said something to her? Well, of course Hannibal _had_ , but what?

The warning of ' _not now_ ' echoes in Will's mind as he starts back up toward the house. He's certain Chiyoh will follow shortly. He walks faster than he had when he'd left it. Apprehension eggs him on, his legs moving him faster as the house nears. He'd called it a mockery of domestic peace, and yet...

And yet it's Hannibal who resides there, waiting for him, more injured and in more pain than him, but still taking care of them all, somehow. He'd sailed to find Hannibal, giving up his dogs, his home, his life. Hannibal, who had let him live when it had made more sense to just kill him... (Sometimes Will wishes that Hannibal had; it's not a thought he often thinks, but it would have saved him a Hell of a lot of pain and heartache.) Now they're tangled and Hannibal believes that the knots can be undone with patience and time and Hannibal claims to accept him, but Will isn't so sure. Him being unsure is about the only thing that he's actually sure about. 

He's also sure that love is not all you need. Love isn't nearly enough.

As soon as his shoes are off, he's searching out Hannibal... Who isn't very hard to find because he's waiting at the dining room table with breakfast that has been recently warmed up if the steam is any indication. 

"You didn't even ask me," Will states. "You didn't even ask me if I wanted to stay. You at least asked me before, over lamb, you asked me to slip away with you." 

Will frowns as he steps closer and despite the urge to kneel and hide his face in Hannibal's thigh, Will sits in a chair like an adult. Like the fucking equal that Hannibal supposedly wants. 

* * *

Hannibal looks out of the window only once after Chiyoh leaves, silent and contemplative. There's much to think about but very little time to do so, or so it seems. The night before lingers in his mind, from Will's anger and bitterness to his disbelief that Hannibal could regret any of what he'd done. While it's true that he cares very little for some of his actions, there is one he wishes he could recant even now. Abigail, while fitting at the time, had been a mistake. He doesn't dwell on how it feels to have Will doubt that. Instead, putting his trust in Chiyoh and her abilities, Hannibal walks over to the stove, regards it quietly, and then begins again. 

He tosses the eggs with the browned edges away, starting fresh. It's mindful and he keeps himself focused as the eggs cook, and while he doesn't have the time to ensure that breakfast looks as good as it could have before, the smell is pleasant. Hannibal warms up the coffee again and tests the sausage, plump with juices and yet still crisp on the outside. The scent of thyme is once again in the kitchen, and Hannibal focuses on it as he pours coffee, plates food, and then carefully, gingerly sits down in his chair once more. His leg throbs and his back is even worse, though it isn't apparent to look at him. His pajama pants are still low on his hips, his forest green sweater still thick to maintain warmth, but Hannibal is still distracted. His thoughts escape from him once again, and it isn't until he hears rushed steps upon the porch that he looks up.

Hannibal turns his attention on Will when he walks in, his shoes apparently left on the mat. For a flicker of a second, Will looks concerned, something lingering behind his eyes, but Hannibal doesn't dare guess right now. Instead he simply watches and waits, ducking his head in greeting as Will walks over. Yet instead of a greeting in return, instead of Will so much as mumbling something noncommittal under his breath, Will's words catch him off guard. Hannibal goes quiet, and already he can feel the faint buzzing of the medication Chiyoh had urged him to take beginning to take effect. He feels it in his fingers, in the back of his mind, low, somewhat distracting, but he can focus through it.

"You were in no state to ask that night, Will," Hannibal says softly, and despite his conversation with Chiyoh, despite his pain, his voice is steady. He sounds like they're simply having a conversation over breakfast. "My goal was to get us both far away from the Verger Estate, to allow you to recover in relative comfort. Would you have preferred it had I carried you to your home, Will? Asked you then?" Hannibal shakes his head slowly, voice mild, not giving anything away. 

"Given that you are as irate as you are even weeks later, I can only guess that asking you then would not have warranted a real answer."

* * *

Maybe he's ridiculous in this moment. To have pulled away, ran - well, walked - away and then coming to crawl back in the end. Chiyoh's words hang over him, like the storm cloud hovering over a cartoon character. ' _Not now_ ' sounds ominous. It sounds like a warning been in the distance. Does Will want to heed the warning? A part of him must as he's here now confronting Hannibal, yet is he really getting to the issue? (What _is_ the issue?) _'You speak but never with each other_ ' Chiyoh had also stated, but hadn't they been trying? Everything that passed between them last night, had any of it mattered? Meant something other than barbs getting under flesh.

When Hannibal replies, Will can't believe Hannibal is choosing that night to bring up, but maybe he shouldn't be. He wants to snap out, ' _of course I wasn't in any state **then** , I meant after_' - but he doesn't. Will doesn't want to think of Hannibal, injured, carrying him through the snow like he had been some damn princess needing saving (hadn't he though?). One villain stealing from another, Will caught in the crossfire and isn't this supposed to be their happy ending?

"A real answer, or perhaps an answer you didn't want to hear?" Will shoots back. His eyes flit to his plate before him. Despite the smell, he has no appetite. There's a knife and fork on either side of the plate, simple utensils but they could be weapons. Hannibal is a weapon, but supposedly he has some control over him. Will feels like he doesn't have control over himself, so why should he be trusted with Hannibal? 

"You want us to be equals, but you've never even asked what I wanted."

* * *

The dominoes have been set up carefully one by one. In Hannibal's mind lies the structure of a plan that he doesn't wish to implement, but he knows that all it will take is a single touch. One domino falling will strike the next, and the picture will reveal itself in millions of individual pieces. Thus far he's been able to guard against any single piece falling, though last night had come close. He'd seen one teeter precariously, had felt the impending adrenaline of the threat of every domino falling, but he'd been able to right it. It hadn't fallen. But as Hannibal stands there in the kitchen and looks at Will, he wonders if maybe it _should_ have fallen. Perhaps in a way, Hannibal has always been aware of certain possibilities, but it hadn't been until last night, until Will's accusations and hissed words and his bone-deep weariness, that Hannibal had finally been able to quantify what those possibilities are. 

The somber weight of decision is on Hannibal's shoulders, weighing him down like a thick cloak. He says nothing. Instead he turns to Will, weary but hiding most of it. Yet there are flickers in his eyes, in his posture. Small notes and hints that something is not right. 

The most obvious hint is in the way Hannibal merely closes his eyes when Will snaps back, ' _a real answer, or perhaps an answer you didn't want to hear?'_ He says nothing. Instead Hannibal merely breathes in the scent of food he has no true appetite for, and he feels the buzz of medication rush to try and soothe him. He cares less about the pain in his back, but in this moment, his back is the least of his worries. 

Hannibal opens his eyes silently, sits, and reaches for his fork. He cuts off a bite of egg and takes his time to mold it to the fork, then lifts it to his lips. Routine. Cut, shape, lift, eat. Simple and repetitive. He doesn't look at Will for a long moment, and when he does, he looks guarded. 

"I wonder if perhaps a real answer and an answer I don't wish to hear aren't the same ones," he says quietly. Will's words from the night before linger. He doubts there had been any resolution. All he knows is that the words had been barbed. "But you're right. Given how infrequently you've seemed to know what you want these past few weeks, I suppose I have avoided the question. So," Hannibal sighs, and looks up to meet Will's eyes. 

"What is it you want, Will?"

* * *

Something isn't right. He's not blind nor willingly naive. Will knows that there are cracks erupting on this rocky foundation their feet have precariously been standing on. They've never been equals. Not truly, not even when Will had offered that more contained darker shade of himself. They've never had stability or safety and warmth. There's been blips, pockets of time where there's been kindness and tenderness (bloody knuckles cleaned and tended to, smiling in front of a Botticelli, napping together), but they ultimately feel more foreign than the norm. Blades and barbed words are far too commonplace, far too significant to forget.

Is Hannibal defeated, wings clipped from him? Perhaps Will is the one who crushes birds now. Back and forth they go, one to their knees and then the other towering over. Will they ever be eye to eye, shoulder to shoulder... (The last time, they had walked in stride, had it been conscious? Will had pulled out a blade--)

From his peripheral vision he watches Hannibal take a bite of the food. He should eat, but the gravity of the situation stamps out any appetite. Of course bringing up this topic invites the very question to be asked of him. Still, when Hannibal's eyes meet his own, Will can barely hold his gaze. There's no heat, no warmth. It's cool like steel, guarded and wary, a fence being erected between them.

"After you left, I felt compelled to go after you. Didn't even know what I would do when I found you. I didn't think on it, but I talked to her, about it, about you, about us..." Will frowns, eyebrows furrowing slightly. Sure, why not go further. "I still do... Maybe when I pulled out the knife I wanted to even the score, to tip the scales in my favor, or closer to, but I have no idea how to measure the pain and hurt and betrayal between us. The scale can be damned." Will knows he hasn't properly addressed the question, but he's working up to it. He swallows and his hands form into fists in his lap. 

"I want to know, without a doubt, that you love me - exactly as I am - all ideals off the table. I want you to believe that I love you. I want to be able to leave the damn house without being followed. Mostly I want all of this to be easier, Hannibal."

* * *

Will doesn't meet Hannibal's eyes for longer than a moment, and Hannibal can't bring himself to feel regret for it. It's been a long few months apart, a long few years of knowing one another, and that this is perhaps the most difficult time they've faced is so ironic that it's almost cruel. Hannibal listens, quiet, and doesn't make a move to interrupt Will as he speaks. Instead he glances at Will between slow, steady bites of breakfast that he hardly tastes. Each one is measured and mindful, a bid for control despite the lack of it elsewhere. 

Will has no idea what Hannibal has thought of, what the shape of the dominoes will be once each one has fallen in an ordered chaos. Hannibal isn't going to tell him. 

Yet as Will speaks, all Hannibal can think of is that perhaps he should not have contained the fall earlier. Perhaps the design had to mature and grow, but he can feel it teetering precariously. He could catch it, could steady it once more, but does he _want_ to? _Should_ he? Those are the difficult questions.

That Will had been hallucinating Abigail is not a surprise. That he still _is_ is another matter altogether. Hannibal looks up from his food and looks at Will, still guarded, perhaps a little unfocused due to the medication, but he holds his tongue. He says nothing, biting back the inquiries he has. If just for this moment, he intends to give Will the respect of his uninterrupted attention, and he does. He says nothing as Will speaks, addressing Abigail and the knife that Will had pulled on him in Florence. Will speaks about measuring pain and betrayal, of damning the scale. And, finally, Will tells Hannibal what he wants.

The issue is that Will's desires are almost impossible to properly quantify. Hannibal's lips thin enough to prove that he doesn't like what he's heard, but whether his distress is anger or regret is anyone's guess. Yet when Will mentions that he wishes Hannibal to believe Will loves him, Hannibal finally looks away, back down to his breakfast. He recalls his words from the night before, recalls claiming that Will didn't love him, that he had an obsession, and that it wasn't the same thing. He wishes he could believe otherwise now.

"Then it appears that our desires are the same. The issue is in who we are," he says quietly, and reaches for his cup of coffee to take a small sip. "Reflect your words back at yourself from my perspective. With the exception of leaving the house," he adds, acknowledging Will's additional concern. "That is what I want. Yet there are acres of bitterness and distrust between us, Will. I wish nothing more than for this to be easier, but I can no more force myself to believe what has no proof than you can. Tell me," he adds, and his voice is calm, not angry, not bitter, just present. 

"What would you ask me to do so that you would _know_ without a shadow of a doubt that I loved you? What could prove that to you? _Truly_ prove it, enough so that the whispers and hisses in your mind would fade?"

* * *

How does it feel to wholeheartedly trust a lover? What does that even look like? How do others do it? Trust their partner not only with their heart, mind and future, but their very _life_? The 'life' part likely doesn't enter into most people's equations. Lucky them. He's thought about killing Hannibal. Dreamed about it. Imagined Hannibal's blood cascading-- He'd sent a proxy to do it. Hannibal had grievously injured him. Deadly dances, their outcomes displayed in various scars on their bodies, memories that throb and fester. How do others not lash out with violence? How do they not cut with words and blades? How does one simply choose to forget and forgive? How does one kiss the killer of their surrogate daughter? How do they have a happy ending _now_?

He needs to move. Will knows it. He needs to move past their past. He needs to free himself of the shackles of hurt and distrust. He has a chance here, they both do. He shouldn't squander it, he shouldn't let this slip through his hands like sand.

But he's paralyzed. Inside, Will feels locked down. Locked in. This is an endless maze, Hannibal and him forced to wander in the desert for forty years. Like they have some twisted penance to perform. Two ragged souls chained, no escaping, skin rubbed raw from the heavy iron. Their selfishness has damned the both of them.

Hannibal apparently wants the same. It seems like such a cruel fate to be so near, but have miles of distance before them - the acres of bitterness and distrust.

"Isn't that the million dollar question?" Will asks back, voice despondent. "You really think there is one action you could perform that would mend us? I don't believe in miracles; not after you shattered that teacup." A mind on fire, sanity questioned, wrists slit, an abdomen sliced, throat cut, head sawed... There's been a lot of pain and breaking in Hannibal's presence.

Will relaxes his fists. Defeat comes with a calm sense of resignation. 

"It would have been a mercy to kill me, either in the beginning or in your kitchen, but you're not about that, are you?"

* * *

There is no simple answer. Hannibal hadn't expected one. The way Will looks now, the lifelessness in his eyes, is almost shattering, it's so sharp. Hannibal looks at him in silence, watches confusion give way to despondency and Hannibal monitors every second of it, watching as Will's hackles lower, watching as he sinks back into his seat with an air of hopelessness. It's nothing that Hannibal hadn't expected, and yet the sight of it still stabs through him like something venomous and bitter. He's quiet, his lips thin, his eyes downcast, his back straight, the picture of silent, artful suffering. If only the emotion felt more noble, for Hannibal cannot quantify the feeling within. There is so much between them, so much rot and distrust.

"No," Hannibal says quietly. There's something low in his voice, bordering on regretful, but too controlled to let it out. "There are days I wish it could have been so simple. You were a seismic event. You tore into my life and broke up the foundation, made me want more than I should have wished. Killing you would have been a mercy for me. Yet were I able to go back and do it again, I cannot say I would have done anything differently. Not in that regard," Hannibal adds, with a twist to his tone that implies he would change _something_.

He goes quiet then, breathing slow, eating slowly but not truly tasting, drinking coffee but feeling nothing but its heat. This is not sustainable. If they can't speak with one another, they have nothing. And as Hannibal looks at Will and sees the way he relaxes in defeat, sees the resignation in his eyes, he knows that something must change. Ultimately, he knows it must be him. He turns his attention to the food in front of him and sighs. 

"I regret only that I have destroyed your trust so completely, Will. As I regret that you have done the same to mine. This is unsustainable." Hannibal leans back in his seat and it does hurt, but what is physical pain compared to the alternative? "Words don't seem to work on you. You suspect them. Promises are shallow. You respond better to actions, but even they fall short. What is left? Emotion? You question the validity of that as well, as do I."

Hannibal trails off, quiet. Then he sets his fork down and moves his hands back to his lap. When he stands, it's sudden but slightly off-center, owing to the medication curling through his system. 

"Finish your breakfast, Will. I believe it is my turn for some fresh air." 

* * *

He's never been truly suicidal. Will's always been too damn stubborn to ever want to give in and give up. He usually prides himself in his resilience, in his fortitude. Even amidst the sleepwalking, the seizures, the nightmares and hallucinations, Will had stuck with helping Jack. Not that it had done much good. Hannibal had orchestrated everything seamlessly, landed him in jail, scooped up Alana, played Jack and then, when the dust settled, turned the key to release him back into the wild.

But on that hospital bed, abdomen throbbing, limbs sore from bed rest, Will had known Hannibal wasn't a man for mercy. Hannibal wanted him hurt, cut far deeper than the smile on his stomach ever could. Hannibal had wanted him to ache, to live with the discomfort of knowing he'd been left, been ultimately rejected and deemed unfit, but also with the knowledge that his betrayal had doomed Abigail. Cruel lovers, indeed.

It's cruel for him to bring up Hannibal's failure in this regard. Hannibal likely had berated himself for being unable to kill him. It would have been far wiser for Hannibal to kill him. Framing him and letting him go had been a gamble that hadn't worked in Hannibal's favor in the least. They're here now, thinner, weary, battle-worn, desperate and at a loss of what to do.

' _Killing you would have been a mercy for me. Yet were I able to go back and do it again, I cannot say I would have done anything differently. Not in that regard.'_

Will listens silently. He thinks he understands that Hannibal would have left _her_ alive. It's not enough. There's no going back, no fucking teacups coming back together. It's Hannibal's turn to be riddled with regret. 

Hannibal speaks about destroyed trust, unsustainability, questioning the validity of emotions... It doesn't sound good. It sounds damning, but Will can't think of what to say. These are truths harder to acknowledge. Love pales next to the doubt, it's suffocated underneath the weight of their history. Hannibal rises and leaves. For fresh air. Will isn't so sure about that, but he says nothing. He remembers words from so long ago:

_'I want you to close your eyes... imagine a version of events you wouldn't have regretted.'_

Will closes his eyes. He imagines. He would have accepted Hannibal's offer to leave, to slip away after the so-called lamb. He would have been brave and chosen Hannibal then, all else be damned. He would have driven home that night, fed his dogs, given them a few treats, cuddled with them and then left a note for Alana. He would have packed a bag and met up with Hannibal. No fanfare, no showdown, no sacrifices. It would have been neater. Tidier. Simpler. Abigail would have been alive and with them. They wouldn't have failed her.

He's with Hannibal now. It should be better. It's supposed to be better. Glancing down at the prepared breakfast waiting to be consumed, Will remembers the first meal Hannibal had cooked and brought to his motel room - the protein scramble. Hannibal's easy smile, Hannibal already working to alienate him from Jack. He doesn’t feel like a mongoose now. Doubt and uncertainty have snared him. Will gets up from the table and hurries up to his room where he locks himself in the bathroom and wretches up stomach bile. 

* * *

Hannibal meets Chiyoh outside. Neither of them say anything. Chiyoh merely looks at him as he stands there, his shoulders slouched in residual-but-numbed agony, heavily favoring the leg that hadn't been torn by the meat hook, and something old and disappointed flickers behind her eyes before she turns away from him. Hannibal lets her, lets her look off to the side. He says nothing, looking out over the vastness of the property before him. 

It's a clear day with a hint of precipitation on the way. The air is cold enough that it could be snow, and Hannibal's lips pull into a small, wry smile. How fitting. One life ended in the snow, and another in stasis. He's quiet as he steps past Chiyoh, though he does notice her immediately turn to look at him, as if she is far more concerned with _his_ actions than she had been with what Will might have done. He supposes he cannot blame her. Chiyoh has no loyalty to Will. She has no need to see him content beyond the knowledge that his happiness reflects positively on Hannibal.

Hannibal limps out, one hand bracing himself upon the railing. His silence is great enough that it briefly resembles a black hole, drawing the outside sounds into its depths to silence even them. Around them, there is nothing but wind and water. Even the birds have fallen silent. Hannibal somehow finds it fitting, but as the drugs ease over his senses to soothe the worst of it, perhaps it is obvious that he should find it so fitting. His smile fades into something low, something regretful, but despite his clear distraction, he does hear Chiyoh's approach. When she reaches an arm out to lock it around his waist, he doesn't turn the offer of assistance down. Instead he leans against her, and with her help, she leads him to the edge of the bluff, looking down at the frothing, swirling waters of the Atlantic.

He doesn't jump. Hannibal has no desire to give up his life. Instead he closes his eyes, puts his trust in Chiyoh to remain steady, and he breathes in deeply, letting the salt air slide into his lungs. He samples it and lets it soothe him, filing each second away. He listens to the sound of the waves, the sound of the wind, the scents of the open air and staggering depths of the ocean. He stands there until his sense of time has been skewed, and it's only Chiyoh's sudden movement that brings him back to himself. 

Her arm tightens just enough to catch Hannibal's attention. His eyes blink open and when he looks at her, he is not surprised to find her looking back at him, her gaze sharp, her lips thin. She looks far more disappointed than she had before, but he supposes it's only natural, given what she knows. 

"You were leaning towards the edge," she says simply, none of her disappointment in her voice. She sounds factual.

Hannibal's smile is somewhat wry. "I believe I have been for quite some time. Would you assist me back inside?"

She says nothing. Her hold on him tightens only for a moment, and then she simply turns. She leads him back to the house, and when Hannibal steps inside, he makes his way slowly back up to his room. Chiyoh leaves him at the bottom of the stairs, and Hannibal pretends that he isn't aware that Will had been sick. He goes to his room, goes to his bed, and settles down. When he closes his eyes, the medication assists him into an uneasy sleep, but he needs to think. He needs to rest.

And when he wakes, he will act. At present, he has no other options. 

He merely hopes Will's red thread is made of something strong enough to withstand this seismic shift.

* * *

Eventually there's nothing left to vomit and he's left gagging, abdominal muscles aching and throat sore and raw. Nothing's been purged, nothing emptied out. Will flushes the toilet and looks at himself in the mirror. He looks pale and haggard, grey bags underneath his eyes. He's a shade of himself. Not like he had been _before_ in the catacombs - almost dead in his focused resoluteness. Instead, it's like he's been drained. Maybe there's nothing left of him, he's been dried up. A shrivelling husk of a man. 

The theatrical thoughts want to make him roll his eyes, but Will resists. He hears the sound of Hannibal coming up the stairs with assistance. It's then Will clues in that Hannibal likely had taken medication earlier. Perhaps that had been the reason for Hannibal's offness. (Will isn't so certain. He's seen Hannibal on pain medication before and it hadn't been like this...)

Will can't do anything to fix it, so he decides on taking a shower. He turns the hot on and lets the steam envelop him. The temperature is a little extreme - too hot - but Will wants to feel _more._ Feel rejuvenated, refreshed, alive. Anything but this. Hot water and soap can't do much, but Will carries on in the task. What else is he to do? He still needs to shower, still needs to shave. He still needs to get dressed again and eat. Piss. Life goes on. This might be his crazy life, but it isn't stopping. There's no train to get off (or to get thrown off, for that matter). 

So, Will goes through the motions. He washes his body. He washes his hair. His skin is reddened by the time he finishes his shower. He wipes the condensation off the mirror, brushes his hair. He gets dressed again. More or less presentable and human. Alive.

The house is quiet as he travels back down to the abandoned dining room table and ultimately a late breakfast. He takes his plate and warms it up in the microwave. Will forces himself to eat. He goes through the motions, much like Hannibal had done earlier. The food, while he knows is delicious, tastes bland. He cleans up after. It's the least he can do and it keeps him busy for a good thirty minutes as he moves slow. Once that task is complete, Will gravitates to the spot yesterday where he'd leaned against the wall with Hannibal.

Will rests against the place. He can remember Hannibal nearly pinning him there, Will's hand rubbing himself to climax. He can picture Hannibal getting to his knees and licking him clean. He can recall the feel of Hannibal's mouth on his skin. 

But now he's alone.The day passes in a blur. Will knows he eats again. He reads. He talks with Abigail, but it leaves him feeling emptier. He tries to sleep in his bed, but the separation is just too damn much that he, once again, rises and goes to Hannibal's room. The door is, mercifully, still unlocked. Will slips in. 

Just _seeing_ Hannibal makes some tension bleed out of him. "Glad your door is still open," Will comments as he climbs into the bed. 

* * *

Hannibal sleeps. If he dreams, he's not aware of it. His thoughts are clouded by a haze of medication and lingering stress, and when he wakes hours later, he feels no better, but no worse. His back is a measure of agony again and his leg throbs in idle reminder that he had been on his knees for Will before. Yet while the reminder of what they'd done sends a rush of heat through him, so too does it sting at the reminder of Will's immediate dismissal, the instant way he'd shoved Hannibal aside and retreated. Even in that moment, the memory burns, and Hannibal regrets it for more reasons than just that. It would have been nice to have something better in his mind, something to fall back on in times of stress. But such things are not to be.

It takes him almost an hour to rise, to gear himself up for what must be done. He's quiet as he rises and just as quiet as he wanders about the top floor of the house. He hears Will on the main floor, but for once, Hannibal isn't looking for him. Instead he finds Chiyoh, and when she sees the look in his eyes, something shutters sharply in her own. 

"I cannot alter your mind?" She asks quietly, with resignation in her voice.

She says nothing after Hannibal shakes his head. Resigned, her lips thin, her head bowed, she invites Hannibal into one of the secluded rooms and closes and locks the door. In there, they stay for over an hour, speaking quietly, both listening closely for Will. Hannibal pretends not to notice Chiyoh's anger, and Chiyoh pretends not to notice his resignation, and together, this moment of seemingly-eternal stasis begins to be fixed.

It's late when Hannibal retires. He cooks downstairs, though only for himself, as Will is not near him when he does. He drinks, he eats his fill, and when he goes to bed, it's with the weight of his decisions upon his shoulders. Hannibal lays down in silence as the minutes crawl on, but despite his attempt to merely remain isolated, he doesn't lock his door. He doesn't expect anything to come of it, so when he hears the soft footsteps outside of his bedroom door and then the gentle creak of the door as it opens, he cannot contain his own surprise. Though he doesn't show it overtly, Hannibal goes quiet. He waits, silent, but when Will wanders close enough for him to see, something deep and aching slides over his senses.

Will quietly settles down beside him, and Hannibal aches. He looks at this man, at the worn, weary lines of his face, and though he'd not have dared the night before, when Will finally settles, Hannibal reaches out. His touch is so gentle it could easily be mistaken for nothing but a breeze against Will's skin. His fingers slide slowly from the scar at Will's forehead, all the way down to the sharp angle of his jaw. Hannibal looks at him, wishing this were easier, wishing _anything_ had changed, but they are as stuck in this moment as they had been before. 

"I could never close my door to you, Will," Hannibal says quietly. In the dark, his voice seems louder despite its small whisper. Hannibal sighs. "Will you stay?"

* * *

He's only slipped into Hannibal's room a few times at night. The first hadn't ended especially well. Hannibal had kicked him out after finding out that Will was afraid of him. The second time had been only the night prior, and that had been after Will had pretty much fled after their foray into the depraved. Will had started them down a sexual track, full steam ahead, and then jumped off the train last minute. He hadn't been regretful or embarrassed over what had transpired, simply overwhelmed. Hannibal _is_ overwhelming.

And yet Will is here, climbing into the bed that's both a little familiar and unfamiliar. Hannibal's hand reaches out (there's been no invitation, not this time, and Will doesn't know how to feel about it). Fingertips glide from the fresh scar on his forehead down his jaw. It's light and unassuming. It's not enough. It makes Will's stomach twist. But he does nothing. What's there to do? It feels like so much has been said and done and Will needs it all to settle so he can try and make sense of it. (He needs to make sense of it. He needs to, because if he doesn't, Hannibal may slip away. Or maybe he'll reach his expiration date.)

"I'm here, aren't I? I'm staying," Will murmurs and he pushes himself closer to Hannibal. There's warmth through the thin layers of fabric, but there's so much skin and bones between them, layers and layers of viscera separating them. 

Will closes his eyes and imagines Hannibal unzipping his scar, letting his insides fall out and making room for Hannibal's hand to plunge in. Hannibal's arm would reach upward to his heart. Or him taking the blade and cutting down Hannibal's chest, cutting through the layers as if they were merely fat. It's of course disgusting, but it makes Will wonder if they can ever have trust and love without pain.

* * *

Hannibal wonders what he might have done had Will claimed otherwise. If Will had come to stay for a moment or two and then left. It would have placed a solitary period at the end of their sentence, a jarring jump to a new paragraph. As it is, as Hannibal's fingers stroke slowly over Will's cheek, he wonders if this isn't already jarring enough. Does he feel more regret for himself, or for Will? For Will, who knows nothing, or for himself, who knows far too much? Is there any point in comparing the two?

No, he decides. Not now. Not tonight.

So when Will shifts in closer to him, Hannibal doesn't stop touching. His fingers slide slowly and carefully over Will's skin and back through his hair. Hannibal's touch lingers, his fingertips rough with the dry, salty air, while still vastly softer than Will's. In the dark, they are both injured, both broken. Physical wounds heal, but emotions remain bloody and festering. Hannibal hopes to change that.

Hannibal doesn't ask this time. Will hadn't protested the initial touch, so Hannibal decides that he can push. He's unassuming as he eases in close enough to set his hand on Will's hip. His touch isn't sexual. It's soft, perhaps indulgent, too little, never enough. Hannibal strokes his hand over Will's side, over skin slightly damp from sweat and stress, but he merely squeezes. It's a light sensation, enduring, and Hannibal's soft sigh is close enough in the end that it ruffles Will's bangs back from his forehead.

Closing the distance between them, Hannibal presses his lips to Will's forehead in a ghost of a kiss. "I've missed you," he breathes softly. "I appreciate your company."

So much to say. Hundreds upon thousands of options, and instead, all Hannibal manages is a sigh. He closes his eyes and draws Will in closer. "May I hold you?"

* * *

His body is close to Hannibal. His body is in Hannibal's bed, in Hannibal's room, in Hannibal's house. His heart? His mind? Will doesn't know where they are at. Floating in limbo, tied up, tied down, chained. Tangled. Manacles fashioned out of thread that's stained in blood. Tighter and tighter it pulls, cutting into his flesh. There will be scars - of course. Why wouldn't there be? It's a bloodsport. Loving Hannibal is a bloodsport. _Their_ love is a bloodsport.

Hannibal's touch is hot, it burns. It's also gentle, fingers sliding through his hair. It feels nice, sure, but underneath each touch is uncertainty and disappointment. A hand comes to his hip and squeezes. Will feels like Hannibal is squeezing his heart. 

Is love supposed to be like this? To hurt and confine with such unrelenting vigor? He can't ask Hannibal. He can't ask anyone. The only people that actually know them, know of them, well... They're not viable options to ask nor does Will believe they would want to be consulted. And Will has talked to Chiyoh (or _at_ her) and it hadn't done any good. 

Will knows they need to discern how to fit the broken pieces back together. They’re the only ones who can. And maybe their fingers will get cut in the process, blood bubbling to the surface, the fresh sting to accompany their blunders... But it's them. With nicks and cuts on their hands they will try and put the picture back in order. Something like that.

Lips brush against his forehead where a closed-up seam of a scar exists. 

' _I've missed you...'_ (Will knows it's true.)

Hannibal's next question is somewhat at odds because Hannibal pulls him closer anyway. Will lets himself come. 

"Don't let me go," is what he whispers. He doesn't recognize his voice. It sounds small. 

* * *

Push and pull. Light and dark. Their red thread and Will's resistance. Always a dichotomy, never assurance. This is why Hannibal has acted. This is why this night will be so poignant in those to follow, if there are any. One night to remember before Will must piece together his reality. Will must be the man to govern his own response. Will must break free of apathy and find his own conviction and Hannibal has no idea whether or not he is strong enough to hold the responsibility that Hannibal will soon bestow upon him.

This isn't kindness. This isn't care. He wishes it were, but as Will lets Hannibal draw him in closer, as he feels Will's tight muscles relax in acquiescence, he knows that Will is as lost as he is. Hannibal still touches him, still strokes his hands in a slow, smooth line from Will's hip to his shoulder and then back down again. He touches and basks, and when Will allows him this, Hannibal closes his eyes and draws Will in, impossibly close.

He doesn't fool himself into thinking that anything has changed. Resignation is not the same as enthusiasm. Will letting himself be drawn in close means nothing save he has lost the will to fight. 

Hannibal still winds his arms around him. He still gathers Will into his hold and shifts, his back a measure of agony as he does, but Hannibal slowly turns himself around and eases himself down on his back. It's painful, but what is physical pain like this? It will do no lasting damage. Pain he can separate himself from. He needs this closeness more than an absence of pain.

Hannibal draws Will in close, offers his chest and the nest of bandages secured there as a pillow, and he draws Will in closer, leaning down to press his lips to the crown of Will's head. So many diverging paths. So many missed opportunities. 

"I won't," Hannibal murmurs quietly. Then, after a moment, he swallows. "May I kiss you?"

Maybe this can change. Maybe not all is lost. But as the words hit the silence of the room, Hannibal doubts it. This must happen. 

* * *

He doesn't suggest that they should move or change positions. Hannibal turns onto his back and there's no way it can be good for the healing brand. But Hannibal has chosen this position so Will simply goes along with it. He lays his head on top of bandages that he did not secure and tries to not be bothered by that fact.

He is bothered by Chiyoh touching and helping Hannibal. It's entirely impractical and ridiculous. Will swallows the feeling down. He doesn't know what else to do with it. If he didn't it would begin gnawing at him, surely. He can't take any more regrets.

Will aches in a way that he's not used to. It's not the ache of wounds. It's not even the ache of being heartbroken and left behind. It's an uncomfortable ache that he doesn't know how to treat. It's painful to be with Hannibal and it's painful to be apart. Where does that leave him? How does he get over himself? 

Apparently laying on Hannibal, desperate and yearning and confused is where he's at. When the question is asked Will blinks a few times, unsure if he actually heard properly. It had been Will who initiated their first barely-kiss. It's Hannibal who asks now, who seeks. Will lifts his head. The room is dark but their eyes are adjusted. He wants, he needs...?

"Yeah, okay," Will agrees, his voice equally hushed.

* * *

Will comes with him. Hannibal's silent urging draws Will in closer. Perhaps a part of Will wants to draw back, to fight being so gently moved, but he doesn't. Instead he lets Hannibal's hands pull him in, and when he settles down on Hannibal's chest, there is a brief moment that Hannibal eclipses his own pain from the image and tucks it away into his mind. If only it were as simple to scrub the expression from Will's face. If only Hannibal could do more to calm the wild, violent waters in Will's mind. 

He can't. He could attempt it, could fight back, could push and insist, but he doesn't. Will isn't in the proper mindset for that right now and there is so much destruction in their wake that it will take time and effort to sort through. Right now it's about mitigating and cataloging the damage from the explosion, not about solving it. That will come in time.

There is no part of Hannibal that honestly expects Will to say _yes,_ and the resulting expression on his face likely says as much. Will looks up at him, his expression torn and uncertain, and Hannibal feels something heavy in his own. Yet Will's soft agreement still slides through him like a hot, twisting blade. Hannibal wonders suddenly if he's made the right choice, but it's too late now. 

So instead he touches Will's cheek, almost halting. His fingers slide over the roughness of stubble, and it's just long enough to show that Will's not taking care of himself the way that he once had. Hannibal scratches his nails over it lightly, contemplative. Then he cups Will's cheek and leans in. The tug against his back is agonizing, _almost_ as agonizing as the warmth of Will's lips when Hannibal catches them in what is arguably their first _real_ kiss. He doesn't push, doesn't deepen it, feeling the roughness of Will's lips and tasting the lingering hint of his toothpaste. Hannibal touches like a man who knows he will have this moment ripped from him. Surely he can't expect anything else from Will, not now.

So he kisses him. He kisses Will for as long as Will permits it.

* * *

He'd brushed his lips against Hannibal's before, a ghost of a kiss, a sampler of sorts. Will knows that Hannibal has wanted to kiss him for quite some time. Hannibal has held back, not asked, not taken. The rules between them are undefined. Hannibal had wanted one thing, Will another. Imagos floating uselessly in their heads. There's love, but love is no magical cure. The only tonic for this ailment is likely time and acceptance. It's not an easy realization. It's an uncomfortable lump in his throat to swallow around.

Hannibal's touch is stilted, fingers grazing against his cheek and yet it's also quite tender. A palm is placed against his cheek and Will knows it's going to happen soon. His pulse races and with no further fanfare Hannibal leans up and their mouths connect. 

Hannibal kisses him slowly, like he is something to be savored. Or no. That's not quite it. Hannibal kisses him like it's not going to _last_. The realization has Will wincing. Another pain to be endured, another invisible wound in the making. So, Will deepens the kiss, he presses his mouth firmly against Hannibal's own. His lips are insistent and needy, he's breathing quickly through his nostrils and Will's hands shoot up to bury in Hannibal's hair, despite the pang in his shoulder. Will is half on top of Hannibal and he knows this is still not a good idea, but he's desperate for this. It feels imperative that he kisses Hannibal, so he licks into Hannibal's mouth and he groans from the slow build of pleasure.

* * *

There is so much in this moment that Hannibal wishes to lock away, to store in his mind for later. Like a starving man on the street being offered a meal, Hannibal doesn't know when - or if - he will ever get another one. It makes this moment special, but it also makes it filled with regret. To have such a perfect gift for only a fleeting moment says so many things that he cannot fully quantify. Or perhaps, for once in his life, the issue is that Hannibal doesn't _want_ to think about this. He wants to experience it. He wants to sketch an image of it in his head, wants to create an imago of the two of them and suspend it in this beautiful moment in time. He wants this. He wants this to exist far beyond the moment he's allowed to have it.

Will doesn't know. He can't. Without context, not even Will Graham - with all his wild empathy - can read minds. He does sense something, though, as before Hannibal can truly lose himself in this soft, careful, halting gesture, Will pushes back. Like a man trying to fight back (and isn't that so beautifully _Will_?). Hannibal feels his back hit the bed harder, feels Will's weight press down against his chest, and the pain is sweet and singing through his bones as his back sets up an agonized spike. 

He doesn't care. Instead, as Will's fingers bury roughly in his hair and Will's tongue seeks entrance into his mouth, Hannibal allows himself his shudder. He locks every second through in his mind.

Then he lifts his own hand again. He parts his lips and welcomes Will in. If this is one of the only times that Will permits this, why shouldn't he take advantage of it? Hannibal's soft sigh is a sharp counterpoint to Will's groan and Hannibal cradles it like a physical thing. He curls his fingers into Will's hair and eases him down, drawing him in to kiss him deeper. Yet despite this, he doesn't push. He takes what he's given and when Will presses in closer, Hannibal welcomes him in. What else can he do? He is as caught by this rapacious man now as he had been all those months ago.

* * *

Hannibal allows his tongue, allows the weight to be on top of him and he bears the pain of their current position. Will knows Hannibal _wants_ , so why doesn't he _take_? Hannibal had all but implied that he didn't need to be courteous any longer, yet it feels like Hannibal is somewhat resigned to this happening... But isn't Will feeling the same way? 

He licks into Hannibal's mouth anyway, his tongue rubbing against Hannibal's own and then flicking over sharp teeth. Will shivers, his fingers curl into Hannibal's hair but he doesn't yank, he simply holds firmly. Will's hands wants to roam over skin that's barely been touched (by him), to learn in a new exploration, but there's clothing and bandages and he knows that it isn't the right time.

(When would it be the right time? What makes it the right time? Which criteria has to be met? He's lost.)

Hannibal's mouth holds no answer but Will kisses him thirstily, kisses him until they're both breathless and he has to pull away. Their lips are wet, faces flushed and Will is a little hard. He searches Hannibal's eyes. He doesn't know what he finds, doesn't know what he sees. Hannibal is shrouded. Their skin may be close, their bodies touching, but there feels like an insurmountable distance between them now. 

Will tucks his head into the crook of Hannibal's neck. He breathes Hannibal in, eyes tightly shut. He wills his body to calm down, he wills the creeping dread to go away. 

* * *

Each kiss is both deep and desperate, and Hannibal drinks in every second. While he knows the dangers of it, he binges. He welcomes Will's tongue, welcomes his touch, welcomes the grip of strengthening fingers into his hair, and he winds his arms around Will in return, careful, like he could shatter at the slightest touch. Will takes, Will presses, and the balance between them is so uneven that it's almost laughable, but Hannibal doesn't focus on that. In this space of unexpected intimacy, he takes. He takes politely, but he still takes. Every touch, every flex of his arms to draw Will closer, every curl of his fingers through Will's hair. He tastes him deeply, lets Will lick into his mouth, kisses back with enthusiasm, and goes as far as to cup Will's cheek tenderly as he sucks and scrapes his teeth over Will's lower lip, like he's trying to take as much as he can.

But in the end, as all things have to, it ends. Will draws away with a deep, ragged breath and Hannibal almost doesn't let him go. But in the end, his hold relaxes and Will draws back. Hannibal holds on for a few moments before his grip eases, and as they share a look, Hannibal commits every second of this to memory. Will looks at him like he's desperate for answers, but Hannibal merely touches his cheek, looking akin to the way he had that night so many months ago, standing in the middle of his kitchen with a blade concealed in his hand.

He draws Will in close. He says nothing. Hannibal gathers Will to his chest like a lover, and when he leans down, it's to press an uncharacteristically light kiss to each of Will's closed eyelids. One hand finds Will's hair, tactile and grounding, and then Hannibal secures the blankets around them both. 

"Sleep," he says, and while it takes Will some time to comply, he eventually does. 

Hannibal watches him for a long moment, stroking his cheek, tracing his scars. He runs his fingers gingerly through Will's hair and drinks in every single reaction - from a wrinkle of Will's nose to the way Will leans into his touch - and then he sighs. 

"Forgive me," he murmurs against Will's forehead, quiet in the dark but for Will's soft breathing.

When he finally falls asleep, it's to the sound of Will's even breaths, the warmth and weight of his body, and the knowledge that _this_ is where he wants to be.

* * *

They move like familiar lovers. They love like lovers do, and yet something is fundamentally flawed with them. Will doesn't know what or why. Why can't they simply _be_? Why can't they exist together without this rot and ache between them? It's terribly unfair. The young die too young, those that have suffered keep on suffering. Maybe this is his lot in life. Maybe this is _their_ lot in life. Broken and their shards suspended, a tension between them - their damn thread constantly being pulled.

 _'You can't always get what you want'_ plays in his head and Will almost wants to cry. Or laugh. His emotions feel misaligned. Did he get what he needed? He's not so sure. 

But Hannibal is tender with him now. He holds him close and he kisses his eyelids. Like a lover. Will sighs and his body does relax.

Like lovers they share the blankets, share the same bed. Hannibal tells him to sleep but Will feels afraid of slipping off. He has no reason to be suspicious. Hannibal loves him. Hannibal had said he wouldn't let go of him.

Will eventually nods off. His sleep is uneasy, but a dreamless night greets him. It's a small reprieve. 

He wakes to shouting. A commotion. An inherent _wrongness_. Immediately Will is lurching up in bed, his eyes frantically blinking awake and discovering that Hannibal is nowhere to be found. Fear drives him out of his bed. Out of the room. Each step he takes is damning but he needs to find Hannibal, needs to make sure he's all right. He's taking the stairs two at a time, but when he reaches the landing, he stops.

The scene is:

Hannibal on his knees, dressed in navy slacks, a vest, and a white shirt (more dressed up than he has been throughout their stay, Will's mind unhelpfully points out.) There's a handful of FBI agents, their guns trained on him. And one Jack Crawford looking resolute as ever standing over Hannibal.

"Hello Will," Jack says like no time has passed at all from last they met in Italy.

"Jack." A million questions dart through Will's mind and Hannibal refuses to look at him. Will feels frozen in a bad dream. Paralyzed. This is Cordell's scalpel--

"Thanks to you the infamous Chesapeake Ripper is now in custody," Jack informs him. "You're safe, Will." The last statement is said softer.

Will nods slowly, his mind forming connections he doesn't want to _see._ Hannibal had likely told Alana or Margot to claim that he'd been captured and taken against his will (not technically _untrue_ ). Chiyoh is nowhere to be seen. If this raid had been genuine police work, she'd be here and caught as well.

No. Hannibal had formed this plan. Hannibal had sent her away. Hannibal had contacted Jack, pretending to be Will.

Will is now free. 

But _why_?

It’s a perfect ending (at least for some). Will Graham has saved the day and turned the villain in. He’s the hero (or is he the victim?).

Either way, this isn't what he wants or needs. 

* * *

The floor is hard against his knees. Strange how the floor seems less comfortable now, when he'd knelt on it comfortably only days before. A lifetime ago, back when there had been a vague hope. Back when they'd been clutching at their red thread and looking for a chance, for an option. A tangled briar of emotions, twisting and cutting and carving, but still spotted. Once, they'd been able to see the end of it, to try working their way through the thorns. Hannibal had been willing to suffer the cuts, suffer the scrapes and injuries for Will. They'd had a chance. 

There are a half dozen agents with guns trained on him, and despite careful planning, a part of Hannibal wonders if one will shoot. Jack has his honor, but these men and women do not.

Hannibal's expression is passive as the agents race through his home, yelling, "clear" in varying voices. Chiyoh is gone, left in the night with her instructions and a note. They'll find nothing, no one. Nothing Hannibal doesn't want them to find.

He looks straight ahead, unblinking, his hands laced behind his head. He pretends not to notice the triumphant look in Jack's eyes - a posturing creature, feral at the scent of blood, mindless with self-congratulation. There is no part of Jack that doesn't feel in control now, and that sensation only doubles when Hannibal hears the sound from upstairs.

He doesn't look at Will. There is no point to it now. Hannibal stares stalwartly ahead, his lips thin, his jaw clenched, his knuckles white. The agent he happens to be staring down shifts, disconcerted, and steps aside, leaving the doorway open to him. One movement. One twitch for a gun and he could be gone. He could grab Jack's gun and put a round through his head. He could lay waste to the task force and solve his problem one bullet at a time.

Hannibal remains where he is. He stares ahead at a sea of expressions - triumph and rage, fear and sorrow, anxiety and hopefulness - and as each one blends into the other, he allows his eyes to slowly unfocus. 

Jack rushes to Will. Hannibal sees medics run by, sees a slew of agents - some with blankets, others with water - rush by to tend to their favorite victim. Yet through it all, Hannibal feels Will's gaze like a separate brand. He feels the confusion, the hurt, the anger, the panic, and it is only the latter that finally, slowly makes him turn his head. He keeps his hands where they are, and as his fingers run through his own hair, he thinks of Will's touch the night before.

Hannibal doesn't look at him directly. It's a sidelong glance, something thin and dismissive on the outside, but something weighted on the inside. He holds it only for the space between breaths, just long enough to lock away the image of Will's shock, his betrayal, his fear.

Then Hannibal turns back ahead. 

He rises under direction and presents his arms for handcuffs. He's led roughly out of the home, Will a long-distant warmth, a fire already fading. Hannibal squints as he's led outside, made to stagger down the steps almost gracelessly but he doesn't react. Instead he looks out at the bright, sunny blue sky above the Atlantic Ocean, admiring the way the sky and water complement each other. Forever separated - ocean and sky - destined to only look, to ever reflect each other. 

Yet ultimately, if only in dreams and fantasies and fairy-tales, they will one day meet on the horizon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, originally we had no ending planned - at least not an ending that mirrored the show. Then things developed in this manner and we felt like we had to have Hannibal show a grand gesture to Will. 
> 
> The sequel will be them getting back together (A HAPPY ENDING, WE PROMISE) but likely no Dragon stuff.

**Author's Note:**

> Like the story? Please consider reblogging it on tumblr [here](http://merrythought.tumblr.com/post/165425406563/the-pull-is-stronger-than-the-push-rating-mature) or leaving a comment/kudo. Thanks!


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